


aphasia.

by red__moon



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Confused Relationship, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Slow Burn, the perils of being young and insecure in london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red__moon/pseuds/red__moon
Summary: ‘You take up all my attention, without even trying.’ They were clumsy, unfiltered words, but he still comfortably held my gaze. A voice in my head urged: touch me. Please, so I know I’m not imagining this. Touch me and make it real.Wary of the decadence and skewed morals that her burgeoning music career might impose upon her, Joanna feels out of place at the rite-of-passage Notting Hill party her new manager has invited her to, until she encounters Matty - practically an old hand in the business, but sweetly untouched by their strange surroundings. As the venues get bigger and the radio plays rack up, the instincts and values Joanna used to cling to don't guide her as well as they used to, and it becomes increasingly difficult to know what her friendship with Matty is really about.
Relationships: Matthew Healy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 22





	1. Elgin Crescent.

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of each chapter you'll find a couple of recommended songs. I pick these out carefully so if you want this thing to feel like a movie... you know what to do. Many months of care have gone into this - it has been, so to speak, my emotional support fever dream, so do let me know if you're enjoying the story/any passing thoughts you have!  
> I hope I can make this version of reality come alive for you.

_The 1975 (ILIWYS)_

_Burial - Near Dark_

_Frail State Of Mind_

_John Maus - Hey Moon_

**PART ONE**

On principle, I avoided Notting Hill like a disease. It felt like a big fat cliché, and since I never ventured west of Baker Street as a student, it didn’t even have the advantage of being slightly familiar, or sparking memories of being young, dumb and drunk like Soho did. I  _ so  _ wished that I was heavily inebriated now. I was about to walk into a party that, based on my new manager’s histrionic WhatsApp messages, promised to be quite outrageous, and perhaps the first big Party with a capital P. The house was completely blurred out on street view when I looked it up – a dead cert for a celebrity home – and the fear of getting lost was the only thing that kept me from downing the half bottle of Bordeaux that languished in my fridge before I left.

_ Elgin Crescent _ . This was definitely the right street; I counted the odd numbers until I got to the right house, a narrow, minimalist, rather jarring creation squeezed between the area’s classic, rococo houses. The top two floors were visible from the road, but everything else was shielded from view by a high wall and electric gate, both painted a flat grey and so solid they could probably withstand a bomb. The only visual disturbance to this minimalism was the little, red LED light that peeped out from on top of an intercom, a brushed steel plaque lying flush against the spotless wall.

Stalling for time, I kicked my heel against the kerb and exhaled heavily into the autumn air, until I could see it in front of my face. I knew I was probably meant to be puffed up with excitement and flattery at my position, but instead I had jangling nerves and a hint of nausea in the pit of my stomach. I tried to see myself through other people’s eyes for a moment, imagining an unknown face walking in, complete with (artfully) unbrushed brown hair, wearing a too-big suit and candy-striped silk shirt. It was a get-up that could have passed for Depeche Mode fancy dress.

The handles of the black plastic bag I was carrying cut into my hand; it suddenly seemed quite vulgar. Despite the salubrious address, it felt unnatural to show up at any home without at least a symbolic, boozy offering, but the bottle of middle-shelf gin and flimsy carrier bag appeared pathetic now. The only sign of activity behind the behemoth of a wall was a faintly audible bass rumble.

‘Hurry the fuck up, already,’ I muttered to myself, and resolutely pressed the buzzer.

After a torturous ten seconds, the intercom crackled to life with a deep, possibly female voice. ‘Hello?’

I cleared my throat, but still croaked, and when I spoke it sounded like another question. ‘It’s Joanna. Dean invited me?’

‘Dean… oh, sure. Come on in.’

The gate inched open painfully slowly, revealing a front door and general façade to the lower floors of the house that was entirely out of character with the rest of the street, in that it looked like the house from  _ Ex Machina _ . A red neon glow filled the hallway, just about visible through the glass above the door. Neon glows were something of a theme, as I would later discover. As I walked up, I half expected to have to knock again, but mercifully it opened just as I reached the porch. Dean’s not-quite-sober grin greeted me.

‘Jo! Heard your voice on the intercom, Sal came to fetch me. You’ve been an absolute  _ eternity _ ! I’ve been boasting about my new signing to anyone who will listen, and it’s far more difficult when your face isn’t here. What detained you?’

‘Bloody Central line. It’s a hellhole tonight.' I kicked a few coats aside in the hallway and eyed up the copious number of furs.

‘Well, when isn’t it? You haven’t missed much’ – he paused to take a drag from a joint. ‘Only I didn’t want you to not get the opportunity to see the place, I know you have something of a penchant for this stuff, after we scouted all that modernist stuff for the video. Drove me nuts, but I do admit, it grows on you…'

He was right - I was fascinated. The hallway opened out into an enormous open-plan room, double height with a glass mezzanine. Through the bi-fold doors, I could make out an exquisitely manicured garden, though nobody used it to smoke; clearly the owner had neither qualms about that, nor fire alarms, since a heady recipe of incense, weed and cigarette smoke filled the room with a general fug right up to the ceilings. It was packed out with a baffling mix of people, some that I recognised with a jolt, and other people who, although their faces were indiscernible, were clearly part of an unspoken clan of the achingly beautiful and wealthy.

We turned to edge down the hallway, between the tall, lithe party people with loud voices. ‘She’s just got back from tour.’ Dean gestured pointedly towards a woman with impossibly long braids, who was flanked by an adoring circle of friends - the host. ‘And over here, this is the guy I’m hoping will style your  _ next _ video…’

These characters all blurred into one amorphous whole after an hour, partly because Dean always made introductions at record speed, and partly because it was far too easy to keep swiping freshly poured glasses of something fruity and ice cold, that probably contained absinthe. Throughout I managed to cling to my bag, which carried my Mac – Helen and I had spent most of the afternoon alternating between recording slapdash demos and checking on her fresh dye job before washing it out (she was going tangerine orange for our next show).

By this point I felt ridiculous for having been so anxious about arriving; true, it was overwhelming to interact with dozens of people within minutes, but most exchanges had consisted of the same, rather slack handshake or air kiss, accompanied by a performative sort of simper, or very occasionally, a sincere expression of interest. But I desperately needed a breather, some time to stand in the corner just to people-watch and recharge my social battery. I squeezed between the huddles of people swaying (more from intoxication than any of the beats playing over a mysterious audio source). This wasn’t difficult; though considered perfectly average in height when in more grounded company, in these circles I was an anomaly. Most of the female half of the room could probably add ‘model’ to their CV, which I considered was reflective of the industry’s prerequisite for our success. There were plenty of rather pretty boys, offering machismo and foppishness alike, plus an inordinate amount of middle-aged men who probably held most of the power: almost exclusively dressed in black, or dressed a little  _ too _ down for the occasion, just because they could get away with it.

It was like inspecting a hectic, interactive museum exhibit. I wasn’t sure if I wanted (or even needed) this crowd’s approval, much less to be a part of it, yet Dean seemed to think it was important that I be there. It was a strange relief to not have been approached in my spot at the edge of the room, perched atop a stray bar stool and chewing on one of the definitely-not-recyclable plastic straws that I had plucked from a kitschy diner-style holder nearby.

Having exhausted my line of sight in the main room, I replaced the drained glass with a fresh tumbler of that delicious cocktail from one of the trays that kept being mysteriously refilled by a very subtle caterer. Slipping off the stool, I located a doorway to my left, and wandered into the next room.

The bland Scandi décor was carried through into this one, but it seemed to function as a media room, judging by the enormous screen that took up half of one wall, and an audiophilic one at that, a custom sound system installed in each corner. There was even a speaker that emanated the dull thud of something ambient from  _ within _ the coffee table.  _ Fucking hell _ , I thought, shaking my head. What the rich will find to spend their money on.

The people huddled around a pouffe in the corner that balanced a gold tray, taking turns to lean down and snort, which I took as my cue to continue exploring. It wouldn’t do to partake - anything even mildly stimulating would mess me up for at least a day and a night.

It took forever to locate the stairs, which were sickeningly glassy and vertigo-inducing. I had never missed a bannister more in my life. As I ascended, two young men fumbled their way down past me, giggling at a private joke and more than a little unsteady on their feet, followed by a girl who looked slightly dazed, and plonked herself down on one of the crystalline stairs halfway up, to fish her phone out from her bra. I sidestepped all three messy passers-by, and mentally made a bet with myself to see how many bathrooms there were; four was my best guess, but I didn’t end up finding out. Not all the bedroom doors were closed, but even through the ones that were open, it was easy to glimpse flagrant couplings, two or possibly more people at it like rabbits. Since I wasn't much of a fan of voyeurism, I followed the corridor past the mezzanine level, and through to the back half of the house that overlooked the garden. This end had one empty bedroom (minimally decorated, again), a bathroom that seemed to be engaged, and a study-library situation in the smallest room I had seen yet. I crept inside the latter, and shut the door behind me, praying for some peace and quiet.

This room was far more personalised – there were floor-to-ceiling glass shelves, which was quite a feat, as this room, much like the rest of the house, had ceilings about ten feet high. On the shelves was just about anything that would fit – books, records, stacks of paper, one or two odd sculptures, and several boxes of tape labelled with project names and dates. I hadn’t had any qualms about nosing around until now, but I felt a prickle of guilt as I peered behind a high-backed swivel chair. Mirrored drawers slid satisfyingly out of a corner desk to reveal neat rows of CD cases, painstakingly categorised by date, and print cuttings; it was reassuring to see that even superstars like the host were sentimental about such things. 

I got down to my knees to take a closer look at the books on the lower shelves, and slid a large photography tome out from the stack. It creaked slightly as I opened it, as if never opened before, which was unbelievable considering the incredible opulence of the images that leaped out from the glossy pages. This one held the interiors of palaces in the Middle East, whilst the next one I flicked through was on the topic of couture of the nineties, the next on post-war brutalism, and so the variety continued on and on. The pile next to me slowly increased, and though I became aware of an ache in my back, I was utterly absorbed – so much so that when the door behind me squeaked open, I jumped in momentary panic.

‘Whoops, sorry- oh. Joanna? Shit, is that you?’

The rosy-cheeked face of a boy I knew gazed down at me bemusedly. His blonde curls bounced as he grinned widely, almost totally unchanged from when we met a year previously.

‘Robin!’ I scrambled to my feet, and we exchanged hugs, slapping shoulders awkwardly. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’

‘Long story,’ he pulled a face. ‘But I’m an assistant to Rachel, who styles Diane, and I guess you can join the dots…’ Robin gestured downwards, as if pointing through the floor to the superstar and her stylist below. He was dressed similarly to me, except perhaps in a more well-fitting suit – he always did like drainpipe trousers - complete with the slightly studied air that comes with a job in fashion. He leaned over the books I’d left scattered on the floor, nudging one of them with his toe. ‘Found something better to do at this party?’

‘It’s exhausting. I can’t be down there any longer.’

‘How come you’re here?’

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘My new manager, Dean… he thought it would be a good idea.’

‘Manager? Wow. Good for you.’ He genuinely seemed to mean it too, his eyes glowing with sincerity.

‘Thanks,’ I flushed. ‘What about you? Do you still get time to play?’

Robin paused, and spun the swivel chair round until he was able to ensconce himself in it, running his hands along the soft velvet arms. ‘Not any more. We had already been going for a couple of years by the time you saw us, remember? I was fed up of slogging it out and getting nowhere.’

This was a pity, I thought, and I told him so. Robin’s band used to have some success on the London circuit, and they had found themselves topping various ‘Ones to Watch’ lists around the time that I was dragged into the upper rooms of the Old Blue Last by Helen, as she announced that there was someone she wanted me to meet. True, I had been impressed – not just by the music, but by Robin’s own model good looks that often graced the pages of the indie monthlies and music publications displayed for free, from Rough Trade to the pub venues of Bethnal Green and Dalston. His was a particularly cherubic brand of good looks, kind of an eighties movie heartthrob character, and though I wasn’t sure what my type even was these days, he had classically pretty blue eyes that practically ensured everyone thought he was God’s gift. Several gigs and a couple of house parties passed with flirtation, but nothing more, and I was too busy concentrating on my own things to put much effort in, holing up in the living room of the flat that Helen and I shared in Streatham instead of trekking out to the next show in a new part of town. But here he was in front of me now, the band-boy-turned-clothes-hanger. At a decadent house party, behind a closed door.

The conversation turned back to the party itself, and the crazy house. I sat on the floor, leaning against some of the mirrored drawers I had poked through earlier, and was growing aware that my mouth was dry.

‘I’ve been to a few places in West on this sort of level, actually.’ Robin’s tone took a slightly boastful turn, and I became aware that he was attempting to impress me. ‘Holland Park is full of politicians, but you wouldn’t believe how many journalists live amongst them, cheek by jowl, all hosting soirees just to get some juicy headlines.’

‘Don’t you find it a bit shallow?’

‘Well… where’s the line any more? There are shallow and real people wherever you go.’

‘But in what proportion? It feels like everyone down there has been looking straight through me. I doubt any of them could remember my name.’

‘Oh, surely not,’ he waved a slightly dismissive hand. ‘Let me introduce you to Rachel, at least – she’s just amazing, a total babe…’ I found myself tuning out already, staring at Robin’s lips as they moved but not really hearing anything that came from them.

‘Jo? Shall we go downstairs?’

I jolted, and he came back into focus. ‘Hmm?’

‘Or we can poke around the top floor a bit more,’ he said quickly, but I caught his drift immediately. He still tried his best to act casual though, lazily turning the pages of a volume on silent film and passing a cursory glance over the harshly painted face of Rudolph Valentino.  _ God _ , I thought,  _ men are so transparent. _

‘I might stay here for a bit.’ I replied calmly, and as he turned back to look at me, his knee knocked against mine, without pulling away again.

‘Are you sure?’

I nodded, but he clearly fancied his chances. As he leaned in, I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes – so predictable, like a sitcom – and tried to relax my face before his lips met mine. It was a satisfying kiss, but it felt oddly perfunctory, as though I was a box he wanted to tick just because I was that person who slipped through the net once, now conveniently hooked due to the debauched circumstances.

Still, I let myself enjoy it a little as his hand slipped inside my jacket, feeling for my waist through my silk shirt, and I felt a familiar flutter in my groin at the thought of getting some unexpected action this evening. Suddenly the image of the couples in the bedrooms nearby popped into my head, and I pulled away again, feeling slightly sleazy. I didn’t want to fuck him tonight, just to be another scene for someone to walk in on. 

Robin was a bit thrown by this, and slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed and one hand still firmly pressed to my waist. I placed my own hand over his, and removed it gently.

‘You know, I might go and get some fresh air. Stay here, look through some more of these if you want. Though maybe you should put them back before  _ Diane _ sees what a mess we’ve made.’ I smiled impishly at him. ‘And message me, if you want.’ I added, and walked back out onto the landing without turning back to see his reaction, feeling audacious.

***

I ventured back down the stairs again, past the girl who now seemed to have fallen asleep onto her phone, the gold lame straps of her dress slipping down her shoulder slightly. The sound of the music was thunderous – I had forgotten this, and winced at the thought of wandering back into the same roiling sea of people I had escaped earlier. Instead, I followed the staircase further down to the basement level, relishing in the way the sound faded almost completely. True to form, the neon light switched to ultraviolet, and I took a childish pleasure in seeing the white laces of my trainers reflected garishly back at me as I trod carefully along a dark, mirrored corridor. The lack of sound from the floors above was truly odd now, and the over-analysis that I had resisted upstairs began to flood back into my brain.

Had I been rude to Robin? Was I just being a prude? I didn’t think so, since he was objectively attractive, but I had never particularly fixated upon him as an object of desire. Okay, so I was allowed to have fun. But most people’s idea of fun was not appealing to me, in the sense that I had no urge to bump uglies with a boy who would probably be hopeless at getting me off, or at least take twice the time that I took myself. I would never, and could never fully feel comfortable in a scenario like that. Robin was sweet, but I didn’t _care_ for him. And that was my prerequisite nowadays.

But my attention was diverted as soon as I stopped before a glass door that rested on a slider, padded all around with sound-proofing, and the realisation came to me. Of  _ course  _ this house had a studio. I pressed my forehead against the glass, letting my breath fog it up a little. The outlines of guitars were indistinct, but still there, and a vocal booth was fully set up, headphones resting casually on the stool as if only just put down in the middle of a session. The desk was extensive, at least two metres wide, with three Mac screens lining the top. It was a set-up I could only dream of, and for a few wistful moments, I imagined myself as the terrifyingly glamorous, unstoppably successful woman Dean had pointed out to me earlier, the homeowner; spending days at a time recording my magnum opus, surrounded by friends and collaborators when I wanted, and left entirely to my own devices amongst a veritable feast of equipment to make the weirdest sounds I could. I thought of my own pitiful set-up at home, cobbled together from things gifted, thrifted and eBayed, and let the glass mist up a bit more as I huffed disconsolately.

Without any warning, a pair of dark, shining eyes and a pale face suddenly loomed up close on the other side of the glass. I jumped back in shock, clapping a hand to my chest in mock trauma to try and play it off humorously. The studio door slid open with a pleasant, smooth click, and revealed a man who seemed uncannily familiar. Yet again, seeing a face like his was completely to be expected at a party like this.  _ Typical Dean, rubbing shoulders with rock stars too. _

He grinned wryly when he spoke, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Shit, did I make you jump? Sorry.’

‘Oh, no… I probably deserve it. I’m just being nosy. Thought I would explore the place while I had the chance.’ My hand went straight to my collar to fiddle with my necklace, a nervous habit.

‘You’re at the best bit now, honestly. You would not  _ believe  _ what she’s got down here. Take a look.’ He pushed open the sliding door a little further, so that I was able to crane my neck around it to look. Without the glare of the UV lights upon the glass door, the darkened room came into focus properly now, and I could make out a beautiful upright piano, as well as dozens of other instruments, some in cases and others propped up on stands. The room must have been twenty feet wide, and I couldn’t have told you how far back it went, but probably as far as the house itself; this was a basement studio in every respect, and the grandest one I could ever have imagined.

The man pulled back slightly, and made a gesture of encouragement with his hand. ‘Come right inside, it’s fucking wild.’ I stepped over the threshold and followed him down a few steps into the studio. He seemed energetic, almost puppyish, but by way of his personality, not another gurning cokehead, and this made his age indistinct and difficult to pinpoint. I took a second to glance sideways at him. His dark hair curled chaotically in every direction, and he sported a pea green denim jacket that was buttoned all the way up, with straight black trousers and scuffed Converse that lent him the insouciant air of a schoolboy who had bunked off for the afternoon. It only took a beat or two to realise that I  _ knew _ who this was. I hadn’t been living under a rock for the last five or six years - I had heard the songs play out incessantly on the radio, seen snatches of festival sets without really lingering, and the television appearances and interviews that were footnoted with a dubious, occasionally even arrogant reputation. But I was hardly about to let him know all of that. After all, my own opinion was relatively unformed, so it was practically like meeting a stranger anyway. Still, I made a concerted effort to avoid looking directly at him so that I wouldn’t appear to be taken aback in any way, since my adrenaline was up and I didn’t trust my poker face.

‘I’ve been messing around with that.’ Matty nodded towards the desk, and I could see now that the screens were glowing with activity. ‘Want to hear?’

‘Yes please.’ I followed him to the swivel chairs in front of the absurdly long desk, my head still buzzing with the surrealism of my situation. ‘How long have you been here for?’

‘At least an hour. I couldn’t deal with all of them,’ he jammed his thumb towards the ceiling. ‘And besides, it’s the absolute worst environment for me to be in. I would have left already, but then I saw this lot, and now I can’t tear myself away, like Gollum.’ He gazed triumphantly at the dizzying spectrum of faders on the console, and pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the chair like a child. With a flick of the wrist, he triggered a sample; a crisp, arpeggiated synth oscillated between the monitors. ‘Push that, the red one. Yeah.’ He pointed towards the red fader nearest to me, and nodded in approval as I phased in a skittering beat, slightly syncopated to alter the rhythm of the whole sound. ‘Doesn’t that sound insane? Very Sparks. I found that ancient drum machine and messed about with it for a bit.’

He couldn’t have been more detached from the chaos of the rest of the party if he tried. Whilst everyone upstairs frenetically grasped at each other and yammered into each other’s ears, Matty was like an oasis of serenity, clearly quite blissed out at his good fortune in finding the basement fully equipped and ready to be exploited. Despite this, his concentration face was verging on a frown, and I suspected he might have easily forgotten I was there whilst he tweaked the sound – the next second, everything was twice as fast, and in the next instant, it slowed down to a leaden vaporwave beat. His eyebrows shot up, and his head tilted from one side to the other, as if trying to detect something.

_ For god’s sake Jo,  _ I internally berated myself and inhaled sharply.  _ Don’t just sit there and watch. _

‘It sounded like early Boards of Canada, before that. Or a little bit Burial.’

‘It did… I hadn’t thought of that.’ He looked back towards me approvingly, and it was as if he was only then seeing me properly for the first time. I allowed myself to meet his gaze finally – it had to happen at some point. The way he looked was startlingly direct, and implied a certain generosity of attention, so that anyone on the receiving end would know that he had time for them, that they were  _ seen,  _ with emphasis, and that he wanted to hear their response to whatever came out of his mouth in the next minute. ‘Can you add something to this yourself?’

Never mind his words, his face was unbearably charming. It was something to do with the way his features aligned when he engaged in conversation, how his slightly tired eyes changed to wide and bright, and the delicate, gently sloping contours of his nose and cheekbones were highlighted with all this extra energy. Noticing these details was highly inconvenient; I was hyper-aware of my facial expression, the way my clothes felt against my skin, the way I sat and the way I took my next breath. But what was really striking was that all of these pretty features were filtered through a lens of warm vitality, rather than the wan, slightly pinched appearance of many male musicians with model good looks. Perhaps it was a by-product of his conversational warmth, or just the neon light playing tricks with my eyes. I couldn’t really be sure.

‘Okay. But only if I get to try this.’ I slid off the swivel chair and lifted a very ostentatious saxophone out of its stand, engraved all over with elaborate paisley motifs.

‘Oh,  _ excellent _ choice. Can you play?’

‘No, I’m hoping to channel the spirit of Coltrane.’ I responded drily, and immediately worried if I’d been too sarcastic, but he merely raised his eyebrows in amusement and lifted the mic behind him closer towards me.

‘Go on then. Start the séance.’

I put on the headphones and began. In truth, I hadn’t played since I was seventeen, but most of the scales and runs felt natural, like riding the proverbial bike. It was a beautiful instrument, immensely satisfying to play, and I wondered darkly if it would be missed if I took it home with me. Somehow I suspected not.

Three minutes later, I finished with a neat trill, reluctant to drag it out. Matty flashed a thumbs up and took the headphones off.

‘How many do you play?’

‘What?’ I missed a beat, confused for a moment. I was still burning with curiosity at what he thought.

‘This lot.’ He nodded towards the jumble of instruments lining the room. 'How many could you just pick up and play, like that?'

‘About…’ I counted on my fingers silently. ‘Six. No, seven. Sax, piano, drums, flute, violin, guitar and bass.’

Matty whistled. ‘So you’re quite the musical polymath. Who  _ are  _ you?’

‘Joanna. But that’s a broad question.’

‘Matty.’ He held his hand out, both sincere and slightly mocking all at the same time; I shook it gingerly. ‘I know it is, but the answer is always pretty telling. Where have you come from?’

‘Bristol, but I’ve lived in London - south - for six years. And I came here tonight with my… friend.’ I paused, and altered my words. ‘My manager. I suppose I’m a musician.’

‘No supposing about that,  _ Joanna _ . Not after what I've heard.’ He enunciated my name with gravity, not unkindly. ‘That’s a relief. I swear half of that lot up there think they DJ, which is fine and all, but I’m bored out of my mind.’

‘Who invited you?’

‘Someone who hasn’t seen me in quite a while. They didn’t seem to have got the memo that I don’t really do this scene any more.’

‘The fashion types?’

‘The coke types. Been there, done that and more, lost the t-shirt.’ He counted the list out on his fingers for added emphasis, and although it probably wasn’t intended to be, the impression was slightly comical.

‘Oh.’ I fidgeted with my necklace again, swivelling around in my chair. Again, I knew some of this already, but didn’t want to let on. I was painfully aware that I wasn’t asking some of the same questions back, but then it was one thing to let him introduce himself, and quite another to act entirely oblivious. ‘Best we stay down here then. I’ve already seen more than I intended.’

‘Fine by me if I get free rein. Nobody’s stopped me yet, although I was afraid at first that you were someone sent to turf me out.’ He wandered over to the upright piano, playing a tentative chord. ‘Give us a rendition. Something of your own.’

‘You don’t want to hear that.’ I felt a bit light-headed at the thought of playing something of my own. I wasn’t ready for that judgement quite yet.

‘You don’t know what I do and don’t want to hear,’ he shot back, playing a more dissonant chord as if to drive the point home. ‘But alright. Play something else then. Whatever comes to mind.’ He leaned away from the keys, and I pulled the piano stool out. This, at least, wasn’t like summoning a long-lost skill, since I played almost every day, and I always enjoyed watching people’s expressions as I switched style and key, in an attempt to impress.

I barely played for half a minute before Matty spoke over it. ‘Bloody hell, what  _ is _ that? Gershwin?’

‘No, that’s actually mine.’

‘Sneaky. And so good.’ His right hand joined my left one at the deep end, and I played higher to make room. He hopped around, trying to predict my chords and play an octave lower, but I delighted in catching him out, changing key even when it sounded slightly off, just because I could. At this he laughed in my ear, an admittedly delicious sound, and a tingle went down my back.

By the time I had picked up a bass, I felt truly comfortable, and Matty alternated between instruments, dragging a little sampler around with him, which he fiddled around with back at the mixing desk whilst I tracked some loose, lumbering basslines on a gorgeous instrument that had to be at least forty years old. So far he had been happy to talk shop – making sounds that amused him, and exploiting the space and equipment. I had half-forgotten I was at a party at all, and I was already starting to form my own impression of Matty based solely off his peaceful, inquisitive company. As far as I knew, he had never been economical with words, but in this context, neither small talk nor a constant stream of commentary was necessary. And then, out of nowhere, it changed direction.

‘You know, this really sounds like a soundtrack to a space movie. I’ve always wanted to do one.’

‘They’re my favourite kind of movie.’

‘You’ve seen the cinema next door, right?’

‘The  _ what  _ now?’ My eyes widened at the thought, although really, I shouldn’t have been surprised at this point.

‘I only poked my head round before, felt a bit guilty about it but I quite fancy going back to be nosy. Let’s see the state of the archives.’ Matty fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it with a flourish as he got to his feet.

It was disorientating to leave the safe, dark enclave of the studio, especially when the ultraviolet lights burst through as he slid the door open. It was as though I was entering reality again, which made the whole situation seem even more surreal, like a lucid dream.

Matty pushed open a door that I hadn’t noticed before, set back into the wall and made of the same smooth granite as the walls of the corridor and basement. The whole place seemed like an underground bunker, an utterly separate, muffled sanctuary. I reached out to touch the walls as I passed, revelling in their industrial coolness even as I felt the vibrations from the party above.

Another few metres away, he opened a second door, which was richly padded with velvet again. I suppressed a gasp as he pushed it right back, and dim spotlights came on, softly illuminating a room with six plush recliners, and a screen taking up one wall. At the back of the room stood a trademark glassy cabinet, this time stacked with DVDs and a few large tape rolls.

‘You’d think they’d just stream everything in a place like this… but there’s even a 35mm projector.’ He gawped at the spindly equipment that was tucked away in the corner, switching the torch in his phone on to inspect it more closely.

‘Do you fancy yourself as an aspiring film-maker?’ I asked, only half-joking.

‘A bit, yeah. Not to sound pretentious, but it seems like something that comes naturally to creative people I guess? And everyone’s creative, in their own way, but if you visualise an artistic journey of any sort - writing, making music, even consuming by reading, you’re almost playing a little film in your head. Does that make sense?’

‘Yep.’ He watched for my acknowledgement, and I grinned encouragingly. ‘But then sometimes I'm afraid that it’s one of those endeavours that I imagine I’ll be good at, and then when I try, it’s soul-crushing how difficult it is, or how average the result is.’

‘But making music is just like that though.’ Matty left the projector alone and turned back towards me, pulling at the dark curls behind his ear in thought, and smoothing them down. ‘Do you remember the first time you recorded yourself? It’s the most embarrassing thing ever, until you gain an acceptable level of self-awareness, self-criticism or whatever, and then it isn’t.’

‘I guess you build up that resilience pretty quickly. You have to, if you want to capture your work.’

‘Exactly. And if it’s been a long time since you properly invested yourself in a new discipline, you’re going to forget just how utterly natural that embarrassment or insecurity is.’

Talking to Matty was like speaking to an extension of my own sub-conscience. He drew me into a commentary on the homeowner’s film collection, a back-and-forth on criminally underrated films, then the job of an actor versus the job of a musician, and then film criticism and whether it was precisely as unnecessary as music criticism. Without instruments around to distract us, we slouched opposite each other in the deep velvet cinema chairs, occasionally diving onto phones to fact check a claim or comment, but yammering away all the while. He was a top tier rambler, with so much to say about every tiny idea or concept; no wonder he came across so smart-alecky in print. But experiencing the force of his personality face to face, it was so clearly just a restless curiosity that he possessed, combined with an enormous depth and breadth of knowledge, yet devoid of any of the conceit or self-importance that I had expected.

Matty smoked one cigarette after the other, tipping his head back and letting the smoke curl upwards during a lull in the conversation. I watched, mesmerised; fatigue and my earlier alcohol consumption was making me feel faintly delirious, but not so much that all my senses were dulled.

I caught the distinctive pool-smell of chlorine, and my gaze snapped up to where a ventilation grille near the ceiling had begun to circulate air. ‘Do you smell that?’

‘Swimming pool.’ He jerked upright, eyes wide. ‘God, and I thought this place couldn’t get any better.’

‘I didn’t see another doorway. Maybe the pipes run out to the garden?’

‘Maybe.’ Matty swung his legs back over the cinema chair, and I followed him out into the ultraviolet glare again. ‘There’s a basement doorway to the outside, through the studio.’

He was right; behind the vocal booths was a French door that opened out onto a sleek patio, with narrow steps up to the main garden, which sat on a level with the rest of the party upstairs. He took these steps two at a time, and I had to jog to keep up.

It had gotten chillier since my kerb-side procrastination earlier in the evening, and I began to wish I had brought a knitted layer. The lawn was impeccably manicured, which prevented my feet from sinking into the ground, and spotlights lit up where the grass met flowerbeds either side. We saw the steam rising from the water’s surface before glimpsing the pool itself, a crisp, dark marble hollow in the landscaping with yet more ultraviolet spotlights that filled the water with a cool glow.

‘She doesn’t do anything by halves, eh?’ Matty shook his head, kneeling down to slip a hand in, and shooting ripples across the pool’s glassy surface.

‘Don’t blame her, to be honest… if I had that sort of cash, I’d build my own personal holiday resort in Notting Hill, too.’ I perched on a short pillar that held a small floodlight. ‘Not sure about the marble though. Give me granite any day.’

‘ _ Grand Designs _ should give you a job.’

‘Amateurs. I just want a Span house.’

‘Oh, they’re lovely - such serene spaces,’ he exclaimed, turning to face me again. ‘And everyone raves about Erno Goldfinger, but Trellick Tower just doesn’t seem as peaceful in comparison… Joanna, be careful. I’m not dressed appropriately to bail you out.’

I had rolled up my blazer sleeves and was dunking my arms into the water all the way up to my elbow. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s like when you’re washing up, and the hot water is so comforting. When I was a kid helping my mum out, I used to stand there for ages with my arms in the sink, rinsing suds off the cutlery as slowly as I could get away with, until my fingers went all wrinkly.’

‘I’ve heard a really hot shower is bad for you now.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read. It doesn’t take into account a hot bath’s positive effects on winter downers.’

‘Mm… the days are already so short. It can be so disorientating, feeling time slipping through your fingers.’

I heard a shriek of laughter in the distance - Dean’s - and craned my neck to gaze back down the garden, suddenly dreading the thought of unexpected company disturbing us.

‘They won’t wind down for a while at least. It’s...’ Matty fished his phone out of his pocket. ‘Wow. Four thirty.’

‘Fuck,’ I pulled my arms back out of the pool, rubbing them furiously as the night air raised goosebumps on my damp skin. ‘I didn’t mean to stay this late! I’m playing tomorrow.’

‘Oh, amazing. Where?’

‘Support slot at Moth Club. Sorry, I’m not usually such a grandma… this one’s just important. I think I left my bag in the basement.’

‘No worries, let’s get it.’ He got to his feet and gestured towards the house. ‘Why such a big deal?’

On the way back, I told him how Dean had set the whole thing up; how we were expecting three, maybe four A&Rs from different labels to come down, and how a follow-up headline show hinged on the reception of tomorrow’s set. I was actually surprisingly calm about it. Dean could do what he liked, make me shake hands with whoever he wanted, as long as I was able to perform as normal. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to sign, in the traditional sense, but Dean had other ideas, and I suspected there would be a battle of wills further down the line. Actually, that was ungenerous - his enthusiasm was genuine, I could tell, which answered for a lot of his ambition. Still that wouldn’t prevent me from digging in my heels every now and then, to maintain my autonomy.

‘Don’t let them tell you it’s going to be definitive - which they will, if they haven’t already.’ Matty advised, as I pushed open the French door, relishing being back inside that cocoon of weird neon warmth. ‘If it changes anything, cool. If it doesn’t, great. You don’t have to do anything different yourself. Unless you’re really keen for it,’ he added this last in a rush. ‘And ambitious. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, obviously.’

‘I am, a bit. Don’t worry.’ I grinned. ‘I don’t want to come across as apathetic. But low expectations, less disappointment, you see. Why, do you think I should polish up my ego?’

‘I  _ always  _ recommend that. Hardly surprising.’ He eyed my bag, curiosity writ large across his face. ‘Do you have tracks on that?’

‘My laptop? Yeah,’ I swung it off my shoulder and slipped the Mac out of its case.

‘Can I be nosy?’ Matty asked, and I was gratified to hear the excitement in his voice.

‘You can be better than that. Will you help me with one of them?’

‘Deal.’

***

An hour later, we were already on the third project, and I was getting used to briefing him, almost like a studio engineer. We were in a different world entirely, for a time; swivel chairs pushed together so we could both see what we were doing, and all my plans of leaving promptly forgotten.

‘This one’s just too… flat. I want to bulk out the bass, make it pop a bit more.’ I frowned quizzically at the screen and cupped my chin in my hands. ‘It’s been infuriating me for  _ days _ .’

‘May I?’

I nodded, and Matty pulled my laptop onto his lap and put on my headphones. He played about for a second, brows furrowed in concentration, and I couldn’t see what he was doing on the screen. ‘It’s sounding seriously good already, but I do know what you mean… if I just…’

He chewed his lip a little as his eyes darted around, nodding along every now and then whilst he evaluated whatever it was he did to the track. I stared in unabashed envy, wishing I could hear what he heard and work out what sort of sorcery was going on.

‘That should do it.’ He passed the headphones back to me, looking pleased with himself. Rather than listen privately, I plugged an aux cord into the laptop and pressed play, so that the track blared out on the monitors in front of us. Sure enough, my drums, vocals and the warm synth were dense and sumptuous; my head fell back and I rubbed my eyes in incredulity.

‘Fuck. You just did it. It’s perfect.’

‘Well, it’s  _ your _ music. I just emphasised the best bits.’

My cheeks grew warm at the implied compliment. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I drummed my fingers lightly on my knee and nodded quickly. ‘There’s one last one I want to add to. Just a vocal melody, I got an idea this evening. Do you reckon there’s an interface around here I can use?’

‘Oh, don’t faff about with one of those,’ Matty wrinkled his nose and waved a hand around flippantly. ‘Just take a voice note or something. They’re almost painfully true to life anyway. And it’s essentially a demo.’

_ Christ _ , I thought.  _ No hiding inside the booth then. _ He pulled the headphones off his ears and slipped them over my own, somehow managing to push my hair back from my ears in the process. I jumped almost imperceptibly at the brief contact, as though he’d given me a static shock.

‘Right…’ I fumbled with my phone, pressing play on the demo and waiting for the right moment. I had to turn my head slightly, so he wasn’t in my peripheral vision. Performing to all the venerated people at the gig the next night didn’t compare to my nerves now, which were somewhat unexpected. I knew it was because, by this point, I desired his approval and respect, at least as a musician, if not also as a new acquaintance.

It took barely a minute, in one take, and I stopped the recording almost immediately once I had finished. Matty reached for my laptop.

‘Can I grab this again?'

I nodded, and he tinkered around with it for a bit longer.

‘I’ve compressed it a bit more, plus a few other things… have a play around.’

He was being modest - he had done more than that, I could tell just by listening, the subtlest of effects. I felt myself glowing with satisfaction at hearing my idea come to life; playing it cool was difficult, but I tried nevertheless.

Once everything was aligned, we connected my laptop up to the studio’s monitors, and listened. It was unsettling to hear the music booming out, stuff that I had previously kept between me, my ears and Logic. But as Matty’s foot bobbed up and down, and he turned to me and smiled winningly, suddenly it was okay.

‘What is it now, six in the morning?’ I asked, snapping out of my trance. ‘God knows how many hours of sleep I’ll get.’

‘No point sleeping at all now. Some of my best performances have been when I’m practically running on fumes.’ He checked his phone. ‘You’re spot on though. And I’ve run out of cigs. This is a posh part of town, is there an off-licence around?’

‘Think so,’ - my black-bag offering came to mind. I packed my laptop away and pulled my jacket back on.

The walk up the stairs and back into the party took on an eerie quality, as the morning light filtered weakly through the glassy walls on the ground floor. The house had become that liminal space of a party in its dying hours, where nothing is quite real and responsibilities are still non-existent, which was certainly the way some people were living it out. The music had transitioned into a pulsing thrum of vaporwave that still accompanied the conversations of the people that remained, maybe about a quarter of the original crowd. Matty whipped a baseball cap out of a pocket in his jacket and pulled it on in the hall mirror, tugging curls into the right place, and as I glanced around, I caught Robin’s eye. He was ensconced on one of the pale blue velvet sofas, sandwiched between Dean (who was out for the count) and a gothy-looking girl. Surprise flashed across his face, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction as I turned back and followed Matty out the front door. He walked energetically, despite being only an inch or two taller than me, and I had to step out quickly to keep up.

‘Ladbroke Grove actually isn’t as bad as Mayfair. That’s a desert, compared to this. Fucking impossible to buy a pint of milk.’

‘Not my ends,’ I shrugged.

‘Where are you then?’

‘Streatham,  _ way  _ away. Cheaper, closer to people and places that matter to me.’

‘Oh,’ he paused. ‘Like who? Parents? Siblings? Boyfriend, girlfriend?’

He was asking carefully, despite the restless fidgeting with his lighter, a pretence at absent-mindedness. Small talk didn't suit him; he had no subtlety. I hid a tiny smile. ‘Best friend, bandmate. Helen and I live together, she keeps me sane. Plus it’s easy to get into central and get the train home to Bristol.’

‘I should really travel home more. Easier said than done.’ He dragged his Converse against the pavement flags, and flung an arm out dramatically as we turned a corner. ‘Coffee and offie - perfect!’

It was the sort of outrageous cafe that sold cappuccinos for three pound fifty, but it was the only option at this hour. They were cranking up the shutters as we waltzed in, baristas glancing us over and making their implicit judgements about where we had come from. The lightbulbs emanated a cold white light, exacerbating my fatigue, and I squeezed my eyelids together, trying not to rub them and make them sore. I insisted on paying for both coffees - it was the very least, I argued, for all the help he’d given me with the demos - and held them both whilst he dashed into the off-licence next door. He lit up again once back outside, and we dithered outside for a second whilst figuring out our directions.

‘I’m going to hop in a cab. Are you heading to the tube station?’

I nodded.

‘Okay, well.’ His speech seemed stilted again, the niceties a struggle to him. He fiddled with the lid on the coffee cup, suddenly appearing very interested in the condensation underneath. ‘If you want, you can take my number.’ His gaze flickered back to me, as if to judge my reaction.

‘Yes please,’ I handed him my phone, ignoring the light-headedness that made me step back a little to steady myself.

‘Don’t worry about bothering me. I like being bothered, especially when it’s about making me feel useful.’ He handed it back to me, straight-faced. ‘Seriously, Joanna. Anything I can do.’ He hailed down a cab a beat later, but before he got in, flashed an enormous grin and gave me a hug goodbye. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and he was a good hugger; genuine, firm, not too brief. But in the next moment he was gone, and I stood on the kerb in the middle of Ladbroke Grove, feeling weightless.


	2. Shepherd's Bush.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the company Joanna kept at the party, it becomes clear over the following week who the superior option is, as (not for the first time) Robin is cast aside in favour of Matty. Warning: features violins and The Room!

_(John Maus - Keep Pushing On)_

_How To Draw/Petrichor_

_(Bilmuri - itslateatnightandimsad)_

To my immense relief, we aced Moth Club. Dean was practically frothing at the mouth as I came offstage, and for the following hour, the spangled gold environs of Moth were blended with countless faces I knew I would forget within minutes as people pressed drinks into our hands. Helen and I packed away as quickly as we could with the help of Ben, a sweet, amiable guy who used to help us out with booking, but had been only too glad to take up Dean’s offer of a day job once we signed to his management. _I want you to be able to keep the people you trust around you_ , Dean had said - it was one of the things that had made me agree to the contract. Not to mention his track record of getting people on Jools Holland, and into brand partnerships. I privately hoped for a guitar maker like Danelectro, but figured I could settle for a shoe brand.

On the way home, in the back of an Uber, Helen grilled me about the previous evening. All she knew was that I had shown my face at this supposedly debauched party, and also that Robin had seen me - in what capacity, she was uninformed, and rabidly interested. I filled her in on the slightly awkward flirtation with Robin, and wondered how on earth to begin describing how the rest of the night was spent. It turned out I didn’t need to in the end.

‘Yeah, Robin messaged me - trying to stick his nose in, I told him where he could put it - but he said he saw you with that guy, oh, what’s his name…’ She wrung her hands exasperatedly. ‘ _Matty Healy_ . For the love of god Joanna, _please_ tell me this is true.’ Her eyes glinted mischievously. ‘What was he like? I thought he was supposed to have an enormous ego, is he totally insufferable in person?’

‘Robin… that wanker,’ I rolled my eyes, amused but surprised to feel defensiveness welling up. ‘It is true. And no - not at all insufferable. Really sweet, actually.’

‘That is not enough.’ She hugged her knees to her chest excitably, and got a brusque telling off from the Uber driver about getting the seats mucky. ‘Alright, mate, sorry. Jo - give me more, I _need_ to hear more.’

Without giving a play-by-play of the entire evening, I covered the essentials for Helen; the state of the house, my exploration and surprise acquaintance, the music-making - particularly that, she pestered me for those details - and the morning coffee. I left out the intricacies of conversation with Matty, which felt oddly personal, and although I trusted Helen implicitly, I was reluctant to let those moments live outside of my own memories quite yet, or else they might end up being mythologised. Despite not having taken anything, it all resembled a strange sort of trip in my mind, an unforeseen circumstance that only a hallucinogen could have stirred into being.

‘God, I wish I'd been there with you. Gracie’s friends are sweet, but a bit full on…’ Grace was Helen’s older sister, newly engaged, and the reason I had gone unaccompanied to the party. In retrospect, I thought it was quite fortunate I had gone alone.

‘When we get home I’ll show you the demo I finished there. See if you can work out what he did, I can’t for the life of me. If we could replicate it more easily… well, it’s perfect for a whole EP, just to make all those different tracks a bit more uniform. The main thing is, you’ll be impressed.’

Helen's eyes glittered excitedly. ‘Which demo was it?’

‘That one we cobbled together last week, with those mad church organs you layered on top.’

We poured out some wine and played around with sounds a bit more once back at the flat, but post-performance fatigue hit us both like a sledgehammer, and we were out for the count within the hour. I woke at eight the next morning, the living room curtains flung open and the sun prising my eyelids open. I had curled up on some cushions on the floor, still in the gold lame trousers I wore onstage, but my blouse was rammed down the side of the armchair, replaced by a far comfier old sweater sometime in the night. Helen snored gently from the sofa, her phone buzzing quietly by her head.

I picked my own phone up off the kitchen counter, eyeing the 5% battery warning. A new message sat on top of all the other notifications, from a contact named ‘Aspiring Filmmaker':

_j_ _ust heard from a mate of mine saying he had seen ‘a brilliant support act at Moth last night’..! a legit quote. thought you'd like to know x_

‘Helen!’ I batted her shoulder in excitement, and she grunted, only half awake. ‘You won't believe this…’ I went to edit the contact and change the name before replying, but had second thoughts, quite liking the fact that nobody else would know who it was.

_my ego just doubled in size! that’s mad, thank you_. I hit send, and wondered briefly if I should follow it up with another message, but he replied almost immediately, and I felt my hands go hot, as though my phone was scorching my hand suddenly

_running on fumes worked out well then_

_anything particularly exciting come of it??_

_remains to be seen_ , I typed back, heart thumping, _but i live in hope_

_either way let me know when you play again, feel like i should catch the full experience since the reviews were so glowing_

_of course!_

At that, my phone buzzed with a message from Robin, and I flicked it off the top of the screen with a vague sense of irritation. I was unsure what to type next though, and opened his message whilst I thought about it.

_Morning Jo, how you doing? Want to go for a drink later this week??_

I rolled my eyes and locked my phone finally. Perhaps Thursday, I mused, wandering through to the bathroom to turn the hot faucet on in the tub. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to finally go out with Robin, even just once or twice; I figured that even if he proved underwhelming, I might get some decent contacts out of his industry ties.

***

I forgot how much the Central line still felt like a sauna, even in November. The neckline of my jumper was beginning to lose shape, from all the tugging I was doing, but by the time I’d bundled it off, I had to get out again. The address I followed took me into the backstreets of Shepherd’s Bush, dubiously lit and increasingly quiet. My phone vibrated.

_omfg is this the dream??_

Attached was a link to a Span house up for sale, interiors untouched for decades. I buried my laughter and resolved to reply later; Matty and I had swapped a few witticisms and memes, sometimes a clip or a funny headline. I felt rather surprised by this; I was so sure he would fade away, lost in a haze of good intentions, but the fact that he had continued interacting beyond that strange night warmed me to him even more. For all he said about being ‘bothered’, and being made to feel useful, the things we were sending back and forth were purely intended to amuse one other. It made the sentiment he had hinted at, that he had been glad to meet me, suddenly quite genuine. 

The warm glow of a pub came into view, the sort of ancient boozer that had been taken over by a chain since the area had gentrified. I spotted Robin sitting in an alcove, and pulled my headphones out as he glanced up to see me.

‘Evening,’ I grinned. ‘Recovered from the weekend?’

Robin went in for a hug, appearing twitchy and a touch nervous. ‘Just about!’

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ He eyed his empty pint glass. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Gin and tonic for me, then. Best keep it a single.’

He was very well turned out for the occasion - an impeccable black suede jacket slung over a purple shirt (silky and expensive-looking, probably Gucci), and dark grey trousers. His blonde hair was swept back from his forehead, but tendrils kept falling down, and when he pushed it back again, I couldn’t help admiring the rather campy effect this produced. In conversation, he probed me on the evening of the party, dancing around the fact that he had seen me leave with a bona fide rock star. And the entire time, I detected some awkwardness on his part - something stilted in his mode of expression - that I could only put down to the fact that we had kissed the last time we saw each other and were yet to acknowledge it. Something about that frustrated me; I always loathed the elephant in the room.

‘Robin,’ I said abruptly, interrupting a slightly dry anecdote about a shoot he’d been on the week before. ‘Be honest with me for a second. What were you hoping for, on Friday night?’

He looked like a deer caught in headlights, and licked his lips apprehensively. ‘Um… nothing specific. You know, whatever you wanted.’

‘What do _you_ want?’ I pressed him.

‘You’re kind of difficult to get to know, you know that? It’s not anything about you per se… you’re just so confident to the point of complete self-possession. It’s kind of daunting.’

 _Bollocks_ , I thought, and continued testily. ‘Okay. You still haven’t answered my question.’

‘Well, that’s why. I don’t think that far ahead, Joanna. I don’t know what I want, but you always seem to. What were _you_ hoping for?’

This took me by surprise, and I felt a flicker of guilt for speaking so combatively. And yet it still seemed laughable that he found me intimidating, almost a cop-out when I was giving him such a clear opportunity to be honest about wanting to get in my pants. ‘It’s bluster. I just let it happen, and then I thought about where I was, and how I felt at that moment. I wasn’t up for anything more. Like I said.’

‘Alright. It makes sense, in hindsight,’ he relented, and paused, his brows still knitted in unease. ‘Is that why you left with him then? That… musician.’

_Say the name, for fuck’s sake._

‘He’s supposed to be a massive dick, isn’t he?

I exhaled heavily; this was starting to become a pattern. ‘Do you think I’d have hung out with him if he had turned out to be one? Am I such a poor judge of character?’

He brushed off my rhetorical question, and persisted. ‘Is that all it was? Hanging out?’ His insecurity was verging on bitterness, and I could feel my temper rising.

‘Oh for god’s sake, yes, if you must know. That’s it,’ I snapped. ‘We talked for six hours.’

‘Okay, sorry,’ he looked slightly incredulous, but held his hands up as if to claim innocence. ‘Just looking out for you. I’ve seen some shady shit happen in houses like that, you know. You wouldn’t believe what some people think they can get away with. And he _is_ arrogant. His reputation precedes him.' I was starting to think that Matty’s rumoured arrogance was merely the result of meeting annoying people like Robin, since I hadn’t yet seen a trace of it in my interactions with him.

‘I appreciate your concern,’ I said sarcastically, to indicate that I didn’t.

Robin drained his pint stiffly, and got up to go to the bar. ‘Let’s forget I asked, alright? I’m sorry, I went off on one a bit, I know. Let me buy you another drink.’

‘Maybe not. I can’t see what use it would be,’ I replied, not unkindly. ‘This was nice,’ - he knew I was lying through my teeth - ‘and I think we sort of fancy each other, but there’s not anything here. You know what I mean?’

‘I think so.’ Robin looked deflated, but I didn’t have much sympathy. 

‘Alright,’ I fished a fiver out of my purse and tucked it under the beermat. ‘For the G and T.’

As I walked back towards the lights and hustle of Shepherds Bush Road, hands thrust into my pockets, I bristled with defiance, but once I hit the main road, I felt very weary all of a sudden. Some of what Robin had said, despite being a sort of backwards compliment, had hit home. Yes, I knew what I wanted, in all aspects of my life, and it often felt like a hassle to explain myself, or make the reasoning behind my actions explicit to others. The men who displayed their confusion at this frequently adopted fake concern the way Robin had, which reeked of condescension. I didn’t want a boy like him watching my every move and treating me like a possession, either as a friend or anything else, for that matter.

My stomach rumbled, and I glanced at my phone again. Barely an hour had passed since I got to the pub where Robin and I had met, but it felt like five. My cheeks burned as I opened Matty’s earlier message, and tapped out a response.

_yes! it’s the pinnacle! that one is weirdly cheap too... must be brexit_

_know anywhere decent to eat in shepherd’s bush? i’m roaming and starving_

He replied almost instantly: _where specifically are you?_

_somewhere near Kensington olympia_

_that’s not far from my place - drop by?? i’m in need of a violin player!_

_or any strings to be honest_

_i’m not fussed, it’s just something super gentle that needs an extra track_

My mouth went dry, and I stopped walking for a second, pausing under a lamppost and contemplating how to make my response seem nonchalant, when really I was elated.

_no problem!_

_what’s your address? can also pick up a takeaway close by if that’s okay with you - still got the hunger pangs_

I copied the address he sent me into Maps, which was about a fifteen minute walk away, not too distant from where the party had been held. _Fancy pants,_ I thought; the closer I got, the more lavish the houses were, easily worth a cool five million each. He accepted the offer of food, but my only option for takeaway was Italian, so I picked up a couple of pasta dishes in foil containers, and hoped they were to his liking.

Matty’s own house was understated from the outside; the sort of facade that I wouldn’t have glanced twice at. Somehow this made walking up to the door and ringing the bell feel more intrusive than if it was a flashy celebrity pad. I half expected to glimpse a neighbourhood watch curtain twitcher out the corner of my eye. He opened the door barely five seconds after I rang, so the faint knot of anxiety in my stomach barely had time to curdle before I was greeted with the sight of him, all rumpled curls and bright smile.

‘Jo!’ He leaned forward to embrace me, his slender arms bare in the threadbare t-shirt he wore, and peppered with tattoos. ‘Come in, it’s fucking freezing out. What food did you pick up?’

‘A lasagna, some pesto penne… wasn’t sure what you’d want. Is it alright?’

‘Perfect. I’m really not picky.’

It was extremely warm and cosy inside, contradictory to appearances, and despite the fact that every wall was made of the same smooth, grey concrete, very Brutalist. When I brushed it with my fingers, it was relatively warm to the touch, or at least room temperature. I retracted my arms quickly when I noticed him watching me. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be, at all. I do it myself loads, it feels nice. Do you like it?’

‘It’s insane. Do you own this place?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied, and I detected some pride in his tone. ‘I used to live east, near Hackney, and it was really homely, I loved it, but it ended up enabling me a bit too much. I would come home from tour and score _so_ easily. It’s not the natural thing to do when I’m here, in comparison. It’s close to management, close to the studio… just makes me want to hunker down and write, create, whatever, without any influences.’ He paused; we were both still hovering awkwardly in the hallway. ‘Come on through, we should eat before the food gets cold.’

I followed Matty through, still a little overwhelmed, and incredibly conscious of my own movements, the way I had been for the first few minutes when I met him. It’s always an intimate thing, to see someone’s home for the first time. Although I was acutely aware of how little time we had spent in each other’s company so far, he had a way of treating you like you were an old friend that had just been away for a year, and now it was time to catch up. We passed through a living room, with one wall taken up by a floor to ceiling window and shrouded by a velvet curtain; an acoustic guitar was propped up against the sofa, whilst a plate and a few mugs were scattered around the coffee table beside photo books and records.

'So what were you doing in my ends then? Not seeking another B-lister open house, surely?' He asked, flicking the lights on in the kitchen - another sleek, concrete-walled room with pale tiles around the appliances, and a spindly mid-century dining table at one end beside another floor-to-ceiling window. A few books sat in a haphazard pile on the table, alongside some rolling papers and tobacco.

I scoffed. 'A date, actually. I walked out.’

‘Oh, high drama. Why?’

‘He was patronising and just generally being a prick.’ _Besides insulting you too_ , my internal monologue piped up, but I kept it vague.

‘He definitely deserved it then,’ Matty smirked. ‘Smoke? I've got a joint.’

‘Sure.’ I dumped the takeaway bag on the countertop and my gaze flickered to the view down the corridor. 'God, this place is massive, it’s quite misleading from the front.’

‘It’s three bedrooms, two bathrooms, plus sort of patio courtyard situation outside. I’m quite looking forward to basking out there in the summer.’

I wandered over to the window and peered out, whilst he rifled through a drawer. ‘You haven’t been here long?’

‘I moved in June, but we were on the road, so I didn’t get to enjoy it properly. It still feels a tiny bit like a very swanky Airbnb that I’ll have to give back after another couple of weeks.' He closed the drawer with a sigh. 'Do you have a lighter?'

I passed him one from my pocket, and he slid the glass door open a few inches, lighting up. 

‘It was absolutely knackering, I was ready to drop. But worth it, of course,’ he added hastily, as if he felt guilty for speaking critically. ‘This year _everything_ got more intense, which is saying something, because it certainly wasn’t calm before.’

‘God. I can barely imagine. I’m not sure I would cope.’

‘Oh, I think you would. Stop me if I’m overstepping, or totally missing the mark… but I think you seem like the sort of person who would quite relish it. You don’t appear to be cynical, just kind of practical and optimistic and still full of energy. So you’d be able to dive in headfirst, but you would hopefully know where the line was drawn too - when to stop, and gather your thoughts, take some perspective.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ I grinned, taking my turn with the joint and feeling flattered. ‘Except I can be a lazy arse too. I often won’t expend energy unless there’s something even slightly pleasurable or satisfying about the result.’

‘Well, let me know when you get the call for Glastonbury. You might not want it when you see how far you have to trek everywhere.’

I was breathing easily by now, all remnants of nerves and anxiety dissolved. We emptied the takeaway cartons onto plates, picked up cutlery and settled on opposite ends of the sofa in the living room, with his laptop in front of us. Matty sat childishly, cross-legged and barefoot. It was difficult to believe he was knocking on thirty.

‘So this is the demo at the moment.’ Once I had clamped the headphones on, he pressed play and sat back, chewing his lip. His gaze travelled between the screen and my face, and I could tell he was anxious to see my expression, and deduce my opinion. I was blissed out enough at this point, from the weed and the food, to allow my reaction to play out genuinely on my face, and sat enraptured as I listened. It was gorgeous - nearly impossible to define in words. Everything was there except the vocals, and I could tell where the strings were meant to go, from the synthetic sounds Matty had thrown in to substitute for the time being.

‘That sounds like it should be a quartet or something, no?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe it will need to be. But I wouldn’t mind double tracking here with you, and taking it into the studio tomorrow and seeing what the consensus is.’ Matty pulled up a black case from behind his side of the sofa, and presented it to me. 'I can't play, not really,' he admitted, preemptively.

'Well, I'm no Paganini. I feel like I should have managed your expectations.' I took the case from him gingerly, prising it open to peek at the small instrument inside.

‘If you’re half as good on that thing as you were on the sax, it’ll do the job.’

Matty played me his ideas on a synth, and we tweaked it a little, before he took me through to another room to record. He had a small home set-up here, and as he wired his laptop into the interface, I positioned the instrument by the mic and began to play. It wasn’t as intimidating as I had worried, which shouldn’t have surprised me, considering how easy it had been to make music practically from thin air the week before. 

Flexing my neck as I propped the violin against it, I was reminded of the years of junior orchestras my parents had cajoled me into. I’d hated it at the time, preferring instead to sit in my room at home, either alone or with Helen, playing guitar and bashing out sloppy, embryonic attempts at recording. Yet now I felt markedly different about all that experience, and silently thanked my parents for having such foresight. Something about playing the violin made me feel elegant and sophisticated - as though I would follow up a sonata with a small brandy. I enjoyed feeling people’s eyes on me when I played, regardless of the instrument, but especially with a violin; the way their gaze tracked the swoop of my elbow, and the slightly slackjaw appearance of anyone who was _really_ impressed.

And I could tell Matty was impressed, even if he didn't have that trademark expression. He wasn't one to hide it; he told me as much in his effusive words and broad smiles. Seemingly content with the three or four takes I had just run through, he wandered through to his kitchen to grab some wine and a large bag of weed, and we settled in the living room again.

'I've always wanted to learn how to write for a whole orchestra, so I could create a really grand, expansive sound and just totally dictate what each instrument should do. Like a puppet master, you know?' He paused, taking in everything he was saying about half a second after he said it. 'That sounds quite sadistic, actually. But can you imagine that level of control?'

'It's the original artist's frustration,' I mused, gently taking the bottle from him and pouring the wine out, so that he would stop waving it around absent-mindedly to punctuate his speech. 'That's why I started recording in the first place, because I couldn't find enough like-minded people, and I can't clone myself. I exploited technology to layer my own sounds on top of each other.'

'And tech is basically a work-around for that frustration. Unless you're some sort of prodigy.'

'You don't have to be a prodigy, Matty. You could learn.'

'Not enough time,’ he shook his head. ‘Not right now, anyway. And I'm impatient, I like to feel like I can get the hang of something within a week or so. I don't like to feel helpless.'

‘Fair.' I watched him roll the joint deftly. ‘I guess that's why the people you do end up making music with are so invaluable, if they stick around. Because you have to trust them so completely.'

'Oh, a hundred per cent. A _hundred_ per cent.' He shook his head as if for emphasis, which made his curls bounce. They were looser today, long enough to obscure his vision at times, and he kept swiping them off his forehead as casually as one would push a pair of glasses up the bridge of their nose. 'It’s like that with the band, but tripled. Quite instinctive. I can’t imagine forming a band as an adult. Never had to do it. I guess I should feel quite lucky about that. What’s your friend’s name again, the one who plays drums?’

‘Helen?’

‘Yeah, her. She sounds important to you. How long have you been playing together?’

‘She’d like that, being called important,’ I chuckled. ‘We met in sixth form. I stayed on at my school, but she was new, and we really stuck together from the get go - one of those things that just made sense, you know how really intense teenage friendships do?’ He nodded, passing me the joint. ‘Like that. Didn’t even have to think about it, and still don’t. That’s mostly why it’s just us two on stage, although I’m starting to feel like I need at least one other person. Backing tracks are _such_ a pain in the arse.’

‘True. We try to do as much live as possible, for that exact reason. You know, the more I hear about it, the more I wish I’d seen you play the other day.’

‘Well, you might have an opportunity in a month or so.’ My stomach fluttered at the thought of Matty watching me perform. ‘I’m still waiting for confirmation from Dean, but… we're trying to get Omeara. Or maybe Oslo.'

‘All the Os. Maybe an O2.’

‘I fucking wish.' I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t want to jinx anything.’

Matty snorted. ‘That’s impossible… just tell yourself it’s happening. At some point in the future, you’ll end up there, Joanna - believe me.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. But sometimes it’s just nice to hear it said out loud, isn’t it?’ He watched as I inhaled, and I wasn’t sure if he had just zoned out for a second, or was actually looking at me.

I lost track of exactly how much we smoked. Since Matty was rolling, I didn’t know how strong they were either, but all the food had disappeared, plus the wine. Usually drinking that much at the same time would mess me up, but I felt alright, considering, though my head was beginning to spin. I closed my eyes a little and tipped it back to face the ceiling, but a sharp falling sensation forced my eyes to snap open again, and I jerked upright again.

Matty laughed - apparently he had been looking after all. ‘Strong, isn’t it?’

‘Deceptively.’ I got to my feet to stretch, picking up my glass. ‘Mind if I have another look in the kitchen?’

‘Of course not.’

I poked around the fridge and the cupboards, finding only more wine, bags of rice and pasta, and weird deli bits, like stuffed olives. None of it would do - it was something sweet that I craved now, like ice-cream. To my delight, I found a tub of chocolate in the freezer, and a couple of spoons in a drawer, which I squinted at with uncertainty, and polished with the hem of my t-shirt.

When I got back to the living room, Matty had sprawled the length of the sofa, his head at one end and his socked feet at the other, with his laptop balanced precariously on his chest. He drew his legs up to make room for me, and we sat and ate the entire tub over the duration of _Mississippi Burning_ (a mutual recognition that it was a legendary film, that neither of us quite remembered the end of, led to him locating it on Netflix). This transitioned to bingeing movie trailers, to bad trailers, to commentary videos on bad movies, until Youtube suggested a reaction video to his band’s music video, and Matty’s own reaction was hysterical.

‘Fucking algorithms!’ He buried his head in his hands melodramatically, feet battering on the thickly piled rug. Each passing hour had just seemed to make him more hyperactive. ‘The subliminal messaging here is too much. I mean… can you believe this hellsite aligns me with The fucking _Room_?’

‘It’s polarising content,’ I tried to stifle my laughter, pulling at his wrist so he would drop his hands. He was surprisingly bony. ‘I thought you liked being polarising!’

‘Oh my god, don’t remind me. I just don’t expect it to come crashing down at, like… whatever time it is. The small hours. In the privacy of my own home.’

‘Damn, it’s three in the morning,’ I checked my phone reflexively. ‘I should go. Are you usually this nocturnal?’

‘Pretty much.’ He shrugged distractedly, then my words appeared to sink in. ‘Hang on. Just stay over.’ He missed a beat, before adding hurriedly: ‘You can crash on the sofa and leave when the trains run again. I don’t mind, honest.’

For a brief second, I considered it. Then I pictured waking up, in an admittedly beautiful but unfamiliar house at an uncomfortably early hour. Waiting around for him to appear and then awkwardly saying goodbye, sensing the discrepancy between the ease of the previous night’s conversation and the newly sober, bleary-eyed small talk.

‘It’s alright, really. I’m going to call a taxi, it won’t be much.’

‘If you’re sure.’ He had calmed down now, Serious Matty once again. ‘You did me a big favour tonight, thank you. The strings sound incredible.’

‘It was a joy. No need to thank me.’ I retrieved my jumper from where it had been bundled behind a sofa cushion, and hunted around for the trainers I had kicked off.

‘So, um. I’m flying to LA on Tuesday.’ He sounded slightly reluctant to reveal this information. ‘We’re going to record for a few days, and then the tour starts.’

‘Shit, that’s insane’ I blinked, straightening up. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘In total, three months. It’s something like fifteen states, so… quite the commitment.’ He paused, suddenly taking his time over each word spoken, and fidgeting with one of the curls tucked behind his ear. ‘Jo, what I said before, about getting in touch if you need anything… it still stands. Just because I’ll be nine hours behind doesn’t mean I can’t be useful, you know?’

My cheeks reddened a little; I was touched, and I hoped he knew. But I responded light-heartedly, shying away from the sincerity of the moment. ‘In that case, I’ll keep sending real estate.’

Although saying goodbye was easier under the influence of weed and red wine, I still felt self-conscious turning back when I got to the pavement. It seemed odd not to, considering I wouldn’t have the opportunity to again for some time; the tour news was still sinking in. But when I did, Matty was still in the doorway, in his threadbare t-shirt, jeans and socks - despite the cold. And when I waved, he waved back.


	3. Soho Hotel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast forward six months to an unspecified awards ceremony at a boutique hotel in Soho; Joanna's life and career are already starting to morph beyond recognition. Since stumbling upon Matty at the strange Notting Hill party and consequently lending her violin skills at his house, have they kept in touch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say that I wrote in the Pinegrove reference BEFORE The Birthday Party came out. Just gonna leave that there, smugly.

_Narcissist_

_(Caroline Polachek - So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings)_

_Facedown_

The leather seat was sticky against my leg, and I cringed a little at the grotesque sound as I peeled it away to shuffle in my seat. Wishing for a soft upholstered car made me feel like a spoiled brat, but I made a mental note to see if it was the sort of detail that the chauffeur company listed when Dean made the hire.

It was April, our first awards ceremony, the first in the season. Being invited tonight hadn’t exactly been a surprise - both of the last singles had been B-listed on Radio 1, and A-listed on Radio 6, and we were now nominated for an award in the magazine’s newcomer category. The trajectory was already faster than I could have anticipated, and although I kept voicing my disbelief, Helen resolutely insisted it had always been inevitable. We had enjoyed larger and larger crowds at shows, until Dean had decided we should pull back - build demand, he said, and reap the rewards later. It made sense, and Helen and I had been able to spend our time focusing on refining new material, along with enjoying some perks that came from brand deals and the increasing fee we commanded. Tonight I was wearing a dress I had craved for a while, an ivory satin number I had lovingly gazed at in Liberty’s for months, and now finally wore at the soonest occasion I could get away with. I had eyed the perfect Shrimps coat to match, but my common sense got the better of me. I didn’t look quite so fancy with my plain black winter coat over the top, but tonight I felt attractive. So did Helen, her red hair offset startlingly by her own purple jumpsuit. She caught my eye just then, reaching over to squeeze my hand. It wasn’t reassurance - neither of us needed that - but mutual excitement, and thrill at where we were at last.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I drew it out to look. A message from Dean, stating he was already at the venue - a boutique hotel newly opened in Soho, raking in publicity as the host of the awards in their new location. A couple of other people had gotten in touch - two to wish us luck, another mutual friend who would also be there. I was grateful to imagine there would be more friendly faces; the idea of relying on alcohol to put me fully at ease didn’t appeal this time around. Out of habit, I scrolled down my messages, quite a way, to January: four months ago. 

_you’ll never guess who i JUST met_

_an absolute fucking legend_

_you tease.. bernie sanders?_

_... meryl streep??_

_spill please!!_

(here Matty had sent a photo of himself grinning ear to ear beside Willem Dafoe.)

_FUCK OFF NO WAY_

_YES way_

_and he actually doesn’t look like a fish at all irl_

_also a very sweet guy, contrary to his on-screen demeanour_

_don’t remind me about that comparison .. i was under the influence alright_

Then a gap of a week, and a missed call one evening, from Matty to me. I remembered this clearly, seeing it when I got out of the shower and suddenly struck with thrill and confusion, immediately inventing a myriad of possible reasons. He never called, only texting. I called him back, but it reached voicemail, so I messaged again tentatively.

_shit sorry i didn’t see your call_

_tried calling back but guess you’re busy of course! you all good?_

_yep no worries_

_dw i was just watching pinegrove play, called in case you wanted to hear_

_but i got footage so it’s fiiiiine_

And since then, silence. That week had been an intense one for mixing and rehearsals for me, so the conversation wasn’t at the forefront of my mind; once I emerged from the other side of it and realised we hadn’t been in touch, I worried about bothering him (exactly what he had said _not_ to worry about, but that didn’t stop me in the end).

Sometimes I wondered if and when we might speak again, or see each other. I assumed not, on his part - he had his responsibilities to the band and the label, and would hardly expend much mental energy harking back to a total of two evenings spent hanging out. It felt strange, to put it like that, because two evenings really was all that it was, despite feeling like more. At the time I hadn’t fully appreciated his utter openness, but now I was beginning to glimpse both the value and the challenge that quality presented in these circles, and this industry.

Maybe if we had met at a show, or been introduced by a third party, small talk would have been the sum total of our interaction. Perhaps I would have been more starstruck, or judgmental, jumping to conclusions or treating him more like another exhibit on the conveyor belt of strange encounters I had, as I pushed through the machinations of my career. But for better or worse, that wall, or filter, was never really there - only a glass studio door, and then a curious man, flesh and blood and second-hand denim. This was why it niggled at me still. It was why I reflexively opened and closed the conversation and hovered to stare at our last words before scrolling back to the top.

Helen knew, of course; there had been no point in trying to keep it from her. ‘Jo, stop that. He’s not going to magically message while you’re looking.’ She hugged her knees against her chest, the heels of her shoes digging sharply into the car seat despite the filthy glares the driver threw via the rear view mirror. ‘What do you think our chances are tonight?’

‘Of winning?’

‘No, of getting laid. Yes, obviously winning!’

‘Minimal to non-existent.’

‘I thought you were an optimist?’

‘ _Realist,_ Helen. We’ll be able to enjoy the evening a lot more if we accept it and just focus on sitting back to ogle people.’ We were still both excited to be rubbing shoulders with a lot of our teenage heroes, and I knew Helen secretly crushed hard on Baxter Dury, a fact I needled her with every time I suspected he might be in the vicinity.

The car pulled up and we hopped out. I tipped the driver heftily to appease my guilt, and Helen grasped my hand before diving into the crowds. Once checked off the guest list and inside, I pulled my coat off and ran my fingers through my hair to fluff it up again, eyeing up the other glamorous people locating their seats at the round tables that were dotted around; we seemed to be in a very large wood-panelled dining room, lit with pleasingly soft lamps and furnished with the sort of green velvet chairs I rather wanted to steal for my own flat.

'I think I see Kim Gordon. Holy shit.’ The pitch of Helen’s voice rose an octave. She could be calm and collected in front of a Beatle, but Kim was her number one.

‘Where?’

‘Don’t make it look obvious! I’ll point her out in a minute. There’s Dean, let’s go take a seat.’

And there he was, dressed to kill in a velvet tux, waving us over excitedly from a table that was thankfully tucked to the side of the room; although I enjoyed some of the attention the dress granted me, I didn’t want to feel exposed. Effusive as always, Dean greeted us both with a kiss on the cheek, and Helen leaned over to whisper in my ear once we were safely ensconced in our seats.

‘Kim at three o’clock, two tables away.’

I turned my head, scanning for her long blonde hair, but as I twisted in my seat, another face loomed much nearer in my line of sight, shocking me much the way it did the first time I saw it - _Matty._ The tectonic plates of the whole evening shifted. Adrenaline surged in my chest.

‘Joanna!’ I read my name on Matty’s lips as his eyes lit up, clearly elated. I got to my feet, but had barely taken two steps before he reached me, clasping me in a bear hug in the middle of the floor so that I was lifted almost an inch off the carpet.

‘It’s been so _long_ , holy shit.’

‘I know,’ I breathed, slightly overawed by the force of his reaction at seeing me. ‘Six months or something? How have you been?’

‘I’m okay, yeah. I’m pretty good.’ He looked it, his dark eyes bright and shining and his hair curling under his ears, untidily combed back from his handsome face now that it was even longer. The suit he wore was cream, and immaculate, despite the concessions to comfort in the blue t-shirt underneath and the now-familiar Converse. He noticed my gaze flickering from head to toe, and placed an arm beside mine playfully. ‘Look, we’re matching.’

Helen suddenly appeared beside me, beaming. 'Hi, Matty. Fancy seeing you here. I’m Helen.’

Matty shook her outstretched hand, and credit to him, didn’t look at all disconcerted. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘All outrageous, I hope.’ She rolled her eyes, reaching backwards for a bottle of Bollinger on the table. ‘I like to have a rep to uphold.’

‘You might be competing with him tonight,’ Matty nodded in the direction of the podium, underneath which Bobby Gillespie uncorked his own bottle of champagne and dodged the fountain that sprayed out hazardously.

‘I’d actually pay to see that. Helen, please put him on your list.’

‘Gauntlet thrown, and accepted. I love Bobby, heard he's always been a mad lad.' She swept her hair over her shoulder and began to weave her way through the chairs; I simultaneously envied her confidence and relished the entertainment I knew she would bring tonight.

‘We have a list of names and faces that she wants to say she’s partied with,’ I explained, as Matty and I took our seats again. ‘We’ve already checked off Courtney Love, Jarvis Cocker, one half of Hot Chip and Damon Albarn.’

‘I can see why you’re so close. You complement each other well,’ he poured the champagne expertly into glasses, one leg crossed neatly over the other. ‘But I've missed a lot, haven't I?’

I detailed it for him, as much as I could - the radio sessions at the BBC, the secret shows, the festival slots I had already agreed to and was now anxiously anticipating. But more important to tell him about was the new music, the way I had changed things since our impromptu recording sessions. Having remembered the satisfaction of being observed as a multi-instrumentalist, I had hauled a few cases up to London from my parents’ house, assembling each instrument around me and working with Helen to diversify our sound. So far, it was working - the first single released using our new method had the biggest buzz around it, the most radio plays and the best write-ups.

Matty kept our glasses topped up as I spoke, eager to listen and batting away my self-conscious apology for word-vomiting. When I finished, the room was fully occupied and raucous with chatter at last; he lifted two unopened bottles from the middle of the table, one tequila and one whisky. 

‘Take your pick.’ His eyes flashed with mischief.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told you, didn’t I? That it would happen. And you did it all yourself. It hardly sounds like you've had a spare moment to properly celebrate yet… so pick one. And let it sink in.'

‘Oh god, you’ll be the death of me,’ I clapped a hand to my forehead, feigning disbelief ever so slightly. ‘Fine… is there any lime and salt?’

‘Excellent choice.’

I made eye contact across the room with Helen just before I necked the first shot, but I couldn’t see exactly _what_ she was mouthing. My brows furrowed in theatrical confusion, but she shook her head and winked instead, busying herself with rolling a cigarette for an adoring young man stood beside her. She brought him back to our table when the awards began, and I nudged Matty.

‘Shouldn’t you be with them?’ I nodded towards his companions - one of his band-members, tall and equally well-dressed, and a couple of other faces I didn’t recognise.

‘Doesn’t make much difference, we’re not up for anything. I’m just presenting one of them.’

Five minutes before his turn came, he snuck off to collect the envelope, and Helen slipped into the seat beside me again.

‘Stunning. Gorgeous. An utter catch.’

‘Who? Your toyboy?’

‘No, you wally, yours.’

‘ _Matty_?’ We were already whispering but I mouthed this, barely audible to anyone except Helen. ‘God, Helen, how much have you had to drink? It’s not like that,’ I spluttered. ‘That’s a bad idea.’

She shrugged maddeningly, her eyes glazing over as we watched him nimbly ascend the podium. ‘I just have a hunch. A little… vibe, if you will.’ She squinted and held her fingers apart by a centimetre, as if to drive the point home.

‘I don’t,’ I prodded her in the side, succumbing to a small smile. ‘He’s lovely. Enough said.’

‘Lovely? Understatement of the century. Mm, if it wasn’t for you, I’d be all over that. He’s _so_ charismatic, and god, that face,’ she gestured towards him, shielding his eyes from the spotlight aimed at him as he stepped up to the podium. ‘I left you alone because I’m an excellent wingman, and I envy you for being in such good company all night.’

My stomach felt like a stone had fallen through the bottom of it. It wasn't as though the thought hadn't entered my mind, but I had buried it somewhere between the party and his house. Best avoided, if I was to appreciate our friendship properly. ‘I don’t see it like that, but I’m glad you like him. I hope Bobby lived up to the hype.’

‘Yes! You won’t believe what I have to tell you…’ She trailed off as Matty began to speak, and we watched him present the award for best debut album to three guys barely out of adolescence, one of whom may or may not have been the child of a Britpop star.

‘Pour me another one,’ he muttered under his breath as he rejoined me a few minutes later. I obliged, and poured out a shot for myself too. This one made a difference; I knew I would have to slow down, or at least wait a while now, to avoid crossing into the realm of complete drunkenness. ‘Pure nepotism, that is. It should be you up there instead, Jo. Probably will be next year, thank fuck.’

I felt my cheeks flush; I couldn’t help it. Hopefully I could pass it off on the alcohol. ‘I’m getting so hungry. Weren’t there loads of canapes here earlier?’ Twisting in my seat, I craned my neck to see if any remained, but there were only crumbs and stray garnishes on the trays.

‘Me too - and I think they’re all gone. We can probably hunt some down, or bribe someone from the caterers to give us a batch of those salmon thingies with cream cheese, they were easily the best.’

Matty crept out of his seat, sidling into the dark wings at the edge of the room. I left my coat draped over the back of my chair, but on impulse, swiped the bottle of whisky, and followed him. Towards the back of the room were the tables of booking agents, journalists and industry bigwigs, a few of them glancing quizzically in our direction. A young man and two girls, presumably from the caterers, stood around in their creased black dress shirts and trousers, picking over plates of what they had salvaged. I spotted a door in the corner, tucked away near the entrance I had passed through earlier. A faint light glowed from the crack in the doorframe, and I tapped Matty’s elbow and pointed to draw his attention to it. He pushed the door open gingerly, but we saved our glee at having found a kitchen until we were quite sure nobody else was in the room.

‘Phew,’ he sighed, puffing his cheeks out dramatically and shrugging the jacket of his cream suit off his shoulders. ‘Holy shit, look at all this.’

We goggled at the trays stacked upon trays of hors d'oeuvres, sushi and elegant fruit platters, bottles of wine neatly arranged by vintage, and even an entire ham that was waiting to be turned into cold cuts. The night was more than halfway through, and it was difficult to believe that the remainder of this feast would all find its way out to the tables before everyone had gone home.

‘This is the room I fantasise about at events like these,’ I chuckled, hoisting myself up onto the counter and peeling away the cling film over a cluster of sushi rolls. I had to shuffle from side to side a little, to avoid my dress riding up my thigh indecently. ‘When I was a kid I wanted to be a food critic, as soon as I found out it was a job.’

‘Free gourmet meals and a free reign to bitch about terrible service. What’s not to like?’

‘Careful!’ I flinched, grasping his sleeve. ‘You’ve dragged that right through the soy sauce.’

Matty shrugged, craning his neck to see the gradually blooming stain on the cuff of his shirt. ‘Fuck. Oh well. It’s not even mine, I nicked it off Adam. He can pay the dry-cleaning bill. Where was I?’ He absent-mindedly ran a finger along the labels of the wine bottles, turning one or two to read the tasting notes. ‘Oh yeah, being a food critic. I love reading those Jay Rayner columns, he can be a real savage when he wants to, even if he does look a bit like a pirate. It’s another art form, practically, but maybe harder, since you’re limited to describing a sensory experience.’

‘And you have to churn that sort of writing out as well, with every assignment. I imagine it’s what a five album deal feels like - knowing you have to pop out material constantly.’

‘God, I hate to even imagine being in that situation. Makes me realise how lucky _we’ve_ been, you know?’ He straightened up, lifting one bottle out of the crowd and turning it carefully in his hands. ‘A sense of obligation can take the joy out of creating.’

‘Okay, fair. But there’s also a lot of obligation-free music out there - made by artists who refuse to acknowledge that they could be useful, or have any social duty - that’s just utterly, purely indulgent bollocks.’

‘Right, and isn’t that where consumers get to exercise subjective _taste_? There’s an argument to be made for escapism too. You can’t easily draw a line in the sand.’

‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘I’m not actually sure there’s a right answer.’

‘Of course there’s not. But it’s fun to hash it out,’ Matty grinned. ‘Can you see any wine glasses?’

‘Nope. All the crockery and glass is out there,’ I gestured towards the door.

‘Okay, well. Fuck it.’ He twisted the cap and brought the bottle to his nose, sniffing gingerly and then taking a swig right out of it. ‘Screw top, only the best in Soho. What is this… pinot noir? Oooh, love a pinot.’ He affected a campy tone, doing a wine mum impression. I snorted, and took the bottle from his outstretched hand.

‘You’re a clown, you know that?’ My mind did a reflexive check on my drink tally - two glasses of champagne, three tequila shots. No small amount - my tolerance was low, and I knew once I started on wine it would hit hard. _Fuck it_ , my internal monologue echoed Matty’s own words. I took a small swig, and then another, alternating with the strawberries we had now uncovered.

By the time the bottle was half empty, I reckoned I had managed to sample just about every type of canape on offer. Matty had joined me in sitting atop the steel counter, and he was now engaged in listing in all the band’s brushes with the law in the States.

'The police are just terrifyingly arrogant there… I think law enforcement always expect some degree of respect but they don't even try to hide it, you know?'

I giggled, jumping off the countertop and snatching his suit jacket from where it was hanging off one of the oven controls. 'Imagine… oh shit, I don't even have belt loops. But you know how they stand?' I rested my hands on my hips, jutting my elbows out; the jacket sat loosely around my shoulders, David Byrne-esque, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the splashback on the wall, finding it faintly ridiculous.

'Have you been then?' Matty battered the heels of his Converse against the cabinets in a gentle rhythm, like a kid against a brick wall.

'The US?' I dropped my arms and relaxed, taking another strawberry from the tray. 'Only New York. I know it's meant to be the most cosmopolitan state, or the city with the most European influence, but I still thought it was utterly mad. I think Dean wants to book an East Coast tour...'

'You should definitely do that. Cultivate something on both sides of the Atlantic. And the clothes, my god… take an empty suitcase.' He pushed himself off the counter to face me, reaching out to touch the lapel of the jacket I still wore. 'I picked up a suit in Brooklyn, kind of like this one. Vintage Prada, and a bargain on top of that.'

'Does it even need to be a bargain for you to buy it?' I smirked, taking another swig from the wine bottle. Matty's hand dropped listlessly for a moment, before reaching out for it.

'Cheeky.' His eyes flashed and he pulled the bottle away too quickly, so that a little of the wine dribbled down my chin. Some of it fell and stained the neckline of my dress, and I went to dab at it reflexively. I didn't manage to though. Matty was now quite close, so close in fact that I could hear him exhale through his nose and feel his breath on my cheek as the bottle was placed back down with a clink on the steel sideboard. His thumb caught the drop of wine before it fell from my chin, and he brought it to his own lips. I stared at his pretty mouth, hypnotised and suddenly very aroused as he licked it clean. He cocked his head to one side as he studied my face, and I breathed shallowly, saying nothing, the air between us charged with something I could identify but was unwilling to name. His eyes told me he wanted me, which seemed confusing, until his warm lips met mine.

It was tentative for perhaps the initial moment, but we were equally emboldened by the alcohol, and our bodies pressed together as our confidence grew. My mind was devoid of any thought except for the awareness of how good he felt, heat flooding my senses. I inhaled deeply and opened my mouth a little; his eager tongue was immediately there, tasting sweetly of the wine, and he smelled good, a touch of tasteful cologne but mostly a natural, mild  _ boy  _ scent. Matty's hand slipped beneath the jacket and caressed the silk of my dress, before gripping my waist to stop me from losing balance. Or was it a precursor to feeling me up? I didn't mind, there and then; I wanted this a lot, my reflexes were sending a clear message. His hand felt cool through the thin material as we settled into a heated flow of making out - oh  _ god _ , we were making out - and my head swam, half with drunkenness, half with lust.

Matty's other hand reached up to cup my jaw, gently brushing my cheek. I smiled into the kiss a little in pleasure, and he pulled away for a second, presumably to make eye contact and dwell appreciatively on the act. But somehow this made it all the more real, and when my eyes focused on him properly again - Matty, my _friend_ Matty - his charming face framed by the unruly dark hair, lips flushed pink from our frenetic activity, I felt horribly sober and self-conscious. 

The sheer irrationality of what I had done struck me like a bell; I could practically feel the vibrations in my ears, a harsh, tremulous shock to the head. Some disturbance must have reflected on my face, because Matty drew his hand back again, hesitating.

‘Are you okay? You look kind of dazed.’

‘Uh…’ _How to summarise my turmoil?_

‘Shit… did I overstep?’

‘No!’ I hastened to reassure him. ‘Definitely not, please don't think that. This is a lot to take in, I have to, um… just give me a moment.’

Matty seemed lost for words, for once. We were still standing close, and he fidgeted with the lapel of the jacket I wore, his gaze flickering around. 

‘I didn't know you felt like that.’ I said finally, my mouth going dry.

‘Well. I didn't plan to act on it.’

‘I think we should stop.’ I spoke almost mechanically, shrugging the jacket off my shoulders and gently draping it back over his in an act of finality. He seemed to be gathering his words to respond but I cut him short, attempting to placate with the briefest of kisses on the cheek, and darted away and out the door.

***

‘Helen. _Helen._ Let's go,’ I hissed in her ear.

‘Already?’ Her eyes widened, and she tapped her phone screen to see the time. 'It's barely midnight. I thought this would be a big night.’

‘Please!’

Recognising the anguished tone in my voice, her eyes widened and she nodded in understanding, pushing back her chair. She paused to cup a hand around the ear of the young man next to her, uttered something I couldn't make out, and he nodded and winked salaciously in response.

Anxiously, I shifted from foot to foot as I waited for her to gather up her coat and bag. In my peripheral vision, I could see Matty making his way back to his seat, combing through his hair with his fingers, and it was hard, really hard not to look in his direction, especially when he seemed to look fixedly towards me for a few, terrible seconds. Although, somehow, it felt far worse when he turned away.


	4. Bermondsey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How big can the fallout from a 'drunken fumble' be? That remains to be seen. Joanna goes on a shoot for Noisey, and gets more than she bargained for.

_HNSCC_

_(Devonte Hynes - Palo Alto)_

_Milk_

The taxi ride back to Streatham was a silent one; I only feigned sleep at first, but genuinely slipped off after ten minutes. Helen woke me with a gentle prod and guided me up the steps to the front door, tutting but with concern still discernible in her voice.

‘Jesus, Jo, it’s normally you carting me home and tucking me in. What on earth happened to _you_ tonight?’ She ran a finger along the purple stain that laced the neckline of my dress. ‘And what’s this, wine? You’re not normally a messy drunk.’

I slumped down onto the front step miserably. ‘I fucked up.’

‘You never fuck up. Or if you think you have, it’s always the tiniest, most insignificant slip-up. It’s mountains out of molehills with you, honestly.’ She sighed in exasperation as she fumbled with the keys. ‘Come on, get up and help me with this bloody key.’

With one more try the door swung open, and I kicked my shoes off in the hallway, already feeling steadied by the familiar, comforting home smell. Helen waited to interrogate me until we were both in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for the chamomile tea she insisted on making.

‘Last time I saw you, you were having a right laugh with Matty. I really can’t imagine what must have gone wrong, so please spill.’

I didn’t bother with the build-up, and spoke bluntly. ‘We made out in the kitchens. After eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking a bottle of wine.’

‘You _made out_ with Matty?’ She spluttered with laughter, bending over double almost cartoonishly, and I glared at her, mortified. ‘Honestly... on what planet is that a fuck up?’

‘We were friends! We _are_ friends. Meant to be. But that might be ruined now.’ I leaned on the counter, pressing my face into my hands. ‘It’s really, really not a good idea to start anything more, because then I end up in _that_ category, the one just for hook-ups and not really being respected, and I haven’t even seen him in months so it’s _obviously_ just an impulse thing, especially because we were drinking so much -’ I rambled, my voice becoming shrill. ‘Helen, our tongues were in each other’s mouths!’

‘Okay, chill for a moment. I think I get it.’ She laid a hand on my forearm. ‘God, I won’t lie Jo, I was rooting for you. How did you manage it?’

I recalled it all for her, hands clasped around the hot mug she placed in front of me. By the time I had finished, the tea was lukewarm and Helen had summoned a diplomatic expression onto her face.

‘Alright, first, please stop saying you fucked up or did something wrong. You were both super into it, the feeling was clearly mutual... and you know,’ she mused, ‘plenty of good friends go through this. Hell, my brother even slept with his best mate on a drunken night out, but they agreed it hadn't been romantic. Not the right quality, or spark, or whatever. But they seem to adore and trust each other implicitly now.'

That didn't sound like my experience last night though. Afraid of hearing Helen's analysis on the subject, I held my tongue about the terrific, primal urge that had snowballed in the pit of my stomach, the heated exchange of breath. No way had that been devoid of the _right quality_. 

I didn't sleep well. I’d been afraid of having a dream that reflected my preoccupations, and something about that fear must have prevented me from dropping off after that, because I tossed and turned constantly, replaying the scene over and over in my head and tracking exactly how the air between us had shifted. I imagined what might have happened differently, if he hadn't kissed me. Or if I hadn't stopped us, or walked away. The image and idea of the latter made me shiver, and I chastised myself at this transgression of thought. All the sensations were still so fresh in my memory and in my body, that they were truly disarming at times to recall. But the more I dwelled on them, the more I was aware that the specifics, the subtleties of realism would fade, until all I had in my mind's eye was a dreamlike caricature of Matty as he leaned in.

The last thing I remembered seeing was the LED clock on my bedside table glowing with the numbers 04:28, when I was woken just three hours later by my phone vibrating on my duvet next to me. I peered at the screen blearily, sitting up in horror when I registered the contact: _Aspiring Film Maker._ God. What reason could he have to call at this hour? Had he pulled an all-nighter after our tryst, drinking to forget how I’d left him hanging in that weird industrial kitchen? Should I be concerned? I let it ring four times, a weak attempt to appear nonchalant. And then I answered.

‘Matty? Are you alright?’

‘Oh, thank fuck. I thought you might not pick up.’ His tone alarmed me - it seemed sober, but stressed out.

‘Why wouldn’t I pick up?’

‘I don’t know, I wondered… you know, since you didn’t say goodbye last night. I think we left things a bit… unresolved. Or, I don’t know the word. In limbo. Maybe this is a terrible idea, shit, I’m sorry I called-’

‘It’s fine!’ I squeaked, acutely aware that the hand holding my phone was growing clammy. 'I mean, it’s a surprise. But I’m glad you did.’

‘You’re glad?’ Matty asked doubtfully. ‘Somehow that sounds ominous.’

‘It's not. You're right. The way I left-’

‘Yeah, why did you? What was on your mind?’ The way he asked was confused, almost pained, and I felt a dreadful pang of guilt.

‘I’m sorry… I freaked out. Wouldn't it have made things kind of messy? Think about it, Matty. Anything in that sphere, it might make all of this a bit weird afterwards.’ It was hard to express myself accurately - to explain how much I loved the rapport we had. ‘We're good friends, right, and I don't know if I made it clear how much I value that. I'd hate to just drop out of contact all over again, simply because we hooked up, or… or messed around once.’

‘Messy? Not necessarily. We're talking now, see? Talking it through and making sure it's not weird,’ he replied hopefully.

‘Yeah, but I don't want to get carried away. I don't want to just be a conquest to you… does that make sense?' I took a deep breath, aware I was simultaneously admitting vulnerability and trying not to sound wanky. 'I worried that it would devalue me, I guess, in your eyes,’ I admitted.

‘Devalue you?’ He echoed my words in dismay. ‘That’s impossible. And besides, if I really wanted to get my rocks off, I wouldn't just grab my nearest mate, no matter how much I fancy them.’

‘I like that,’ my grin seeped into my voice as I relaxed. ‘Did you always?'

‘Fancy you? Yeah, as soon as I saw you in that crazy suit at the party.’

I giggled. ‘Thank you. For checking in.’

‘Don't _thank_ me, I'm sure I woke you. It was a bit of a risk, I guess, but it paid off in the end, didn't it? I mean, you seemed to enjoy yourself.’

He spoke in a knowing tone, and I felt my cheeks burning. ‘Oh. Yes, I did.’

‘There you go. So no harm done. Did you sleep alright, after all that wine?’

‘Barely. A lot on my mind.’ My bedroom door creaked open, making me jump. Helen’s face appeared in the doorway, shining with interest. ‘ _Matty?’_ she mouthed. Typical; she was only a light sleeper, and must have eavesdropped on me. Motioning to her frantically to leave me in peace, I brought the phone back to my ear. ‘Hm? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

‘I said you should get some rest now. I shouldn’t keep you on the phone, you must be knackered.’

‘No! Don’t worry about that. I’m kind of hyped up now, I can’t imagine going back to sleep. What time did you leave in the end?’

‘Like… three? Adam and I had a bit more to drink and then ordered pizza to the lobby. I didn’t quite get shitfaced but I was pretty much drowning my temporary sorrows. Quite a theatrical place to do it, on a positive note - that hotel was gorgeous.'

‘Well, that’s Soho for you, isn’t it? I used to imagine how glamorous it would be to live there, in barely half a square mile of debauchery.’

‘You never know. You might be able to afford a place there soon, if everything goes to plan.’

I snorted with laughter. ‘It’s a bit past it, isn’t it? Hasn’t been a hub for artists since the millennium.’

‘What’s the equivalent now? Mile End?’

‘Not that shithole,’ I shuddered. ‘Helen hates it and I’m too used to having her around. In fact I worry sometimes, about losing the organic free time for us to write.’

‘I know, me too. You do end up just squeezing it in when you can, which always feels like a shame, considering it’s the core purpose of your career. Fuck, your life. I don’t like to categorise it as a career, it makes it sound oddly businesslike. And sitting like a lemon in the studio, forcing your ideas. That’s not a nice feeling.’

‘Does the imposter syndrome ever go away?’

Matty went quiet for a second, apparently thinking carefully about the next thing he would say. ‘Eventually, yes, it does. But… think of yourself as an imposter in a slightly thrilling way. A spy for the so-called other side - completely unique, idiosyncratic, an us versus them sort of thing. You can end up wearing it like a badge of honour, and then you actually miss it when it does leave you. Because then you almost worry that you’re paling into the crowd. Does that make sense?’

'It does. And it makes me feel better about it.' I hugged my knees to my chest, cupping my phone between my shoulder and my chin as I pulled the duvet around me. 'You know, when you talk about being useful, this is what it is, to me. You give the best advice.'

'Do I? I feel like I talk absolute bollocks half the time. Everyone tells me so.'

'Yeah. If anything I should have asked you more, before everything happened for me and Helen. Could have done with these pearls of wisdom.'

'Oh, stop. That time… what was it, like six months? At least four - where we hardly spoke. That fucking sucked,' Matty laughed, playing it off casually. ‘I’m out in Australia in two weeks, okay? And we _are_ keeping up this time.’

Helen poked her head around the door again, waving a mug and mouthing 'coffee?' - I nodded. 'Are you busy today?'

'In the studio again. I keep getting ideas, and at this rate, the next record will take another year, but it's the proudest I've felt of anything so far.'

'Tell me about it.' 

I sank back into the pillows and listened to Matty talk. Even just the intonation of his voice was intensely comforting, and as the time ticked slowly by I felt the familiar dynamic returning, all concern or tension over the previous evening forgotten, but with the rather flattering addition of having admitted our mutual attraction. 

Helen brought me my coffee, and I could see a burning curiosity in her face about the conversation, but merely raised my eyebrows smugly, and indicated that she would have to wait.

***

Poor Helen did have to wait a long time. Matty and I spoke on the phone for nearly three hours, at the end of which he had quite entirely convinced me that there was no point worrying about ruining things, and indeed, no point in us staying away from each other. We agreed to carry on much as we had before, with the addition of whatever felt natural. And yet, I didn't know when I would see him next; nothing had been confirmed, simply because our own routines were non-existent and up in the air.

The rest of the day was spent doing dull chores, brightened somewhat by blasting New Order loud enough to be heard over the vacuum cleaner. Helen and I had let the flat turn into a pigsty; when we were recording and on a roll, all other responsibilities went out the window. I asked her to stop me from over-analysing my current predicament out loud, something I knew I would be tempted to do now it was undeniably more complex. 

It was funny, I thought, how actually nothing had changed, but I perceived our friendship (or whatever it was now) differently, simply because of one drunken fumble. And by differently, I meant I allowed my mind to dwell on him even more, to wonder what had been going on inside his head for the last six months. Despite having supposedly been told this already during our phone call, it was mildly entertaining to imagine for myself what his first impression might have been, his thoughts as we messaged back and forth. Shit, I’d even sent a selfie in my pyjamas once (solely to advertise their resemblance to a certain Australian kids’ TV show). It boded well, I reasoned. It bypassed the insecurity I had felt in the past with boys (guys? men? there was a variety), whether they would change their minds once they had glimpsed your relaxed, carefree self, putting no effort whatsoever into appearing cute. I couldn’t say I had really held back any part of myself in the time I had spent with Matty, and vice versa - the likelihood of being surprised was low.

Before going to bed, I borrowed a face mask from Helen, in a concession to preparing for a shoot for Noisey that Dean had lined up the next day. This was something I had very limited experience with, and I remembered how much I had hated being primped and poked at before. The last thing I wanted was a make-up artist tutting over the state of my skin before pinching me with an eyelash curler, so a few efforts the day before felt necessary. On the other hand, Helen was utterly unconcerned, and was in bed, snoring softly, by the time I had washed and blow-dried my hair around midnight.

The studio was in Bermondsey, an easy journey from home the following morning. Spring was out in full force, and by nine, London was bathed in pale white sunshine; even the trail of impatient traffic through the streets couldn't detract from its prettiness. The address Dean had given me turned out to be one of the beautiful old warehouses on Bermondsey Street that I had always longed to peek inside.

'These are great eyebrows, love, have you ever plucked them?' A young woman with a strong Scottish accent fussed over me, making me blink at a rate of about fifty times a minute. Thus far the experience was already starkly different to the last shoot I had been on; that one had consisted of me posing in various stances on and around a saggy armchair of questionable provenance. But I was heartened to realise when I got to the studio that this photographer (Nia, a friendly, open-faced woman with a perfectly teased afro and expensive looking, minimalist jewellery) had decided we should venture outside to her preferred outdoors location. 

For now, I was receiving the final touch-ups to my hair, artfully tousled by Karen, who had by this point confirmed for me that she was Glaswegian. I shifted restlessly on the hard stool I was perched on, and admired Karen's skill in the mirror. She had shaded my eyelids all the way up to my brows with a pale, powder-puff blue that fanned out to my temples and made my green eyes seem less swamp-like, more a tasteful mossy colour. Normally I hated people touching my eyes, but if the result was always this good, it would be well worth putting up with. 

Unoccupied, my mind wandered to Matty, and what his experience must be of these things. He must have been on hundreds of shoots before, and I knew he wasn't averse to being made up, considering the eyeliner-streaked editorials I had glimpsed over the years. He probably quite enjoyed the process, flailing around and being so photogenic, and never having to worry about them getting a bad shot. I was vaguely aware of my own anxiety that they would catch me mid-snort or with resting bitch-face, and for some unfathomable reason, decide to include the offending shot in the shortlist.

They let me pick out a couple of items I liked, before styling everything else around it; I selected a pair of petrol-blue cotton shorts that might make me look like a sailor, and equally would be difficult to pair with flouncy, 'sexy' things. Not that I minded appearing feminine, but preferably in the Anne of Green Gables, rough-and-tumble girlish vein - like I'd just been kicked out of the sandpit for being too boisterous. The stylist, Frances, found a capacious white shirt and bolo tie to complement them, but she let me keep my shoes on, a battered pair of penny loafers.

Dean chose to stay inside, chain-drinking coffee from a machine and glued to his laptop, but he nodded approvingly at our final sartorial choices.

'You look fantastic, Jo. What are stylists for, anyway?'

The young man who had been assisting Karen raised his eyebrows cynically, hoisting her bag of tricks over his shoulder. Nia led me outside and down the street to a small park with a Victorian memorial garden, complete with ornate railings.

'I love this place, no preparation needed. And it suits your image, quite playful, innocent… I'm thinking we can set up under this tree here, you see?' She directed her own assistant to help her set up, and I watched from the sidelines as reflective screens were unfolded, angled just so, in order to catch the late morning's pure, white light.

The stylist's assistant, the one with the slightly sarcastic expression who had raised his eyebrows at Dean's comment, sidled over to where I waited patiently. He was tall, with a rather pinched face; something about him reminded me of a squirrel, and I immediately felt guilty for making such an unflattering comparison. But no, there was no getting around it - I couldn't unsee it. It didn't help that he spoke with a nasal voice, and what he said grated at me.

'I think I saw you out, just the other day. At the Q Awards?'

'Oh, really?' I tried to reply casually, but my pulse surged.

'Yeah… was it you in the cream coloured dress? Kind of a silky one. Frances has been on the lookout for one like it for weeks now, caught my eye.'

'Liberty's - you're welcome.' I conceded a tight smile, glancing to Nia to watch for her cue when I was needed.

He leaned towards me conspiratorially. 'So, Matty Healy, eh? Didn't know that was a thing.'

I must have whipped my head around in a flash, with a face to match, because he looked vaguely satisfied at my scandalised reaction. 'Oh, Matty. Yes, we're good mates. He's been so helpful,' - I could hear myself, the aggression, the defensiveness that screamed through my cool words and feigned manners - 'just the sweetest guy really, I haven't known him long. It's not a _thing._ Really, it isn’t.'

The assistant shrugged, turning to pull a box of grapes from a Tesco bag. He started snacking on them, obnoxiously rolling them around his mouth after popping each one in. 'You want to be careful, mind, hanging out with him. Before you know it, Mail Online are airing your dirty laundry to the world.’

‘I don't have any dirty laundry,’ I snapped, instantly regretting it. _Don't be a bitch, you idiot,_ I internally scolded myself, _you can’t afford to make enemies_. ‘I’m not bothered. Everyone knows what the media is like.’ Except I had never been the subject of it on a mass scale. I seriously doubted I was on that sort of radar though. What was a few stylists’ assistants, in all honesty?

He flashed a sickly sort of smile. ‘Yeah, they do. It’s a shame, but I guess that carousel is just part of the whole game. And it's all publicity, right?’

I nodded dismissively, but cringed to myself - I hoped nobody would think I was associating with Matty for _publicity._ Nia waved me over at that moment, and I gratefully cut off the conversation. I was rattled nonetheless, and all it had taken was one snarky stylist's assistant. A thicker skin would be required, I knew, and quickly.

***

The photos came out beautifully; Nia had given everything a soft focus in editing, so that the pale, fresh quality of the light remained, but not its blinding crispness - hard to describe, admittedly, but very flattering overall. My favourite image was shot slightly from below, making me look particularly self-possessed and quite proud, the wind lifting strands of hair off my forehead. The sun was behind me, the light reflected gently back into my face so that there were no stark shadows to distort anything. It even captured the pastel blue eye makeup that Karen had carefully applied.

'Do you think people will think I'm leeching off Matty?' I asked Helen abruptly after dumping my stuff down at five, just after getting back to the flat. She was messing about with a new Minimoog we had clubbed together to buy (one of the latest indie bands from the noughties that had broken up due to fading careers and burgeoning families, auctioning off old gear).

'What? No. Why?'

'You know. We're only just starting out, hanging around someone with a certifiably flourishing career.'

'Who's got into your head, Jo?' Helen frowned, prising the headphones away from her ears.

'Just some prick on the shoot today, stylist’s assistant,’ I replied irritably. 'Telling me he saw us at the awards the other day, and that I should be careful or I'll end up on Mail Online.'

‘He’s bitter. Got to be. Look at Robin - same job, running around like a puppy after a stylist, a failed indie frontman with a side gig walking the runway for mid-level fashion shows. Stands to reason that this guy is in the same vein.’

‘I suppose,’ I slumped on the sofa opposite where she had set up the Moog, tossing my phone from hand to hand and intermittently glancing at the screen. I didn't like feeling dependent on contact with one person. Traditionally, Helen and I were around each other almost constantly, in a companionable, sisterly manner, and that worked due to our careers and living situation. In this weird, are-we-aren’t-we limbo, I had no idea what to expect from Matty.

‘Put your phone _down_ , Jo, for god’s sake. Let’s go out, watch a film or something,’ Helen suggested, but her voice was stern, scolding me slightly for my introspection.

‘Alright. But I’m not doing one of your psychological horror things again. I didn’t sleep a wink after we saw _Us_.’

We went to the Ritzy, and bought tickets for a foreign film that had received acclaim at Sundance. It was difficult to lose myself in it though, and by the time we were an hour and half and a tub of popcorn in, I was starting to wish we _had_ gone for a psychological horror. I would rather have been scared shitless than left to my noisy thoughts. With Helen’s elbow touching mine though, and her occasional glance over to me at the interesting bits to watch for a reaction, I was struck with gratitude towards her, and her borderline telepathic sensitivity to my moods. 


	5. Granary Square.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a tour of London's artier districts, Joanna and Matty enjoy each other's company again and tiptoe around their acknowledgement of mutual attraction...

_ (The Durutti Column - Otis) _

_ (The Durutti Column - Requiem Again) _

_ (Porches - Patience) _

I was out the next day, waiting in a hotel bar for a journalist, when Matty’s message came through.

_going to an exhibition opening this evening - good mate of mine but i’m on my lonesome. are you free?_

_i CAN be,_ I typed a hasty response, as a young man walked in, awkwardly raising a hand in recognition. _doing an interview now in old street but should be done in 30ish mins_

_8pm then? come to granary sq and i’ll find you. x_

I knocked back the last few drops of wine in my glass as the young man approached - almost freakishly young, probably a student with a sideline in youth culture zines. He bounced slightly on his heels as he walked, and shook my hand very professionally and earnestly, which warmed me to him immediately. This didn’t help alleviate any of my guilt at fobbing him off with some rather detached responses to his questions, which were, in fairness, not of the inspiring variety. But we were nearing the end of our thirty minutes when he asked one that jolted me from my unfocused, background daydreaming about the rest of the evening.

‘I get the impression that a song like ‘Adhesive’ is commenting on codependence… do you find that your personal relationships influence the writing process at all?’

 _Personal relationships_ . My notebook was in my bag, the last couple of pages featuring nonsensical scribbles that indirectly referred to feelings of confusion, hope, helpless attraction. The notes on my laptop contained similar, scattershot verses, a few lines of vocal melody and harmony already committed to Logic in some crisp, ethereal takes drenched in reverb. _Yes, you could say so._

‘Occasionally. I know some people feel able to refer to others quite overtly… but I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so. It’s definitely cathartic though,’ I gave my response reservedly.

‘So you _do_ find relationships - possibly romantic ones - to be valuable sources of inspiration?’ He pressed on, a glint of animation in his eyes.

‘Oh, there’s very little of that these days,’ I brushed his words off with a gentle laugh. ‘A song like ‘IOU’ for example, that’s an explicit declaration of appreciation for Helen, in the format of a love song. I have a lot of friendships and family relationships to mine for the subtleties of human interaction and connection.’

‘I love that song, really delicate drums at work there…’ And he was away again, until the barman checked in five minutes later to see if either of us wanted any more drinks. I glanced up at the clock, and the young man’s gaze followed mine - seven thirty.

‘Shit, already! So sorry, I guess our time must be coming to an end now?’

‘Looks like it… thanks so much, erm -’ I racked my brains for his name. ‘Aaron. This has been great. Do you know when it’ll be written up?’

He clicked his dictaphone off and packed his notebook away; I was acutely aware of every action, waiting for the moment I could dash away to the tube and get on the Northern line. ‘Yeah, should be up on the website within a week. I’ll send a link to Dean, is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

A brisk handshake, the tab paid - I was free. 

***

Craning my neck to glimpse my reflection in the window of the tube carriage, I was acutely aware that I had not had the opportunity I would have liked to, to actually select something decent to wear and perhaps pull a brush through my hair. Matty usually only saw me dressed to kill - first at the party, then after the date with Robin, and then again at the awards ceremony. Today I was in some very modest jeans, straight, raw-edged and a grubby sort of off-white, with a red roll-neck jumper and plain black sneakers; not ideal for an art exhibition, but I consoled myself with the thought that I might not stick out if the UAL crowd were there. 

The contents of my bag were close to useless - a tin of pink Vaseline and some mints, which I still made use of anyway. At Angel, a couple of girls boarded the tube and sat down opposite me, blocking my view. One of them stared for a prolonged number of seconds, quite pointedly at me, and when she muttered in her friend’s ear, I realised with a chill that I had been recognised. It was starting to happen about once a week, the frequency gradually creeping upwards. I was busy in town and often rode public transport, but usually the encounters were in venues and shops, rarely underground in Zone 1. Half of me liked it, quite vainly, but the other half found the awe and small talk horribly awkward, especially in a tunnel.

Thankfully, the platform at King’s Cross was jam-packed, and I slipped out the door and into the throng before either of them summoned up the nerve to say something. Granary Square was only a five minute walk, and it wasn’t difficult to spot Matty in the wide open space, if you knew what you were looking for; the shock of dark curls, the collar of a brown wool coat flipped up to protect against both the strong breeze and any unwanted attention. He spotted me a few seconds before I reached him, and I didn’t think I would ever tire of the affectionate smile of recognition that creased his whole face, or the soft, open hug that he offered up.

‘Right on time! It’s eight on the dot,’ Matty swayed from one foot to the other before releasing me from his grasp.

‘Should I have warned you about my reputation for perfect time-keeping?’ I grinned, tucking my earbuds into the pocket of my jeans. ‘It was only a very short journey, to be fair.’

He looked tired, the circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual. ‘I’ve barely been out here for a minute. Fuck, it’s cold though.’

‘Take this.’ I tugged my scarf away from my neck and draped it over his neck. ‘I’m feeling okay, actually.’

‘Yeah?’ Matty blinked earnestly at me, rubbing the wool of the scarf against his cheek and pulling it more tightly around him. ‘You sure? How have you been?’

‘No, I mean I’m feeling quite warm.’

‘But how have the last few days been for you?’

He knew, goddammit, that my head had been spinning - he must have suspected, or he wouldn’t interrogate me like this. ‘Weird, if I’m honest. Shoot for Noisey the other day, interview this evening, and all the while Helen and I have barely stopped writing.’ I told him about the Minimoog, and the experience in Bermondsey, artfully leaving out the conversation with the stylist’s assistant.

It was a good job we had spoken so extensively on the phone, I realised; it would have been difficult to say a lot of what I had then to his face. And it was funny, really, all the little things I noticed now: the tiny moles on his cheek, the errant silvery strands of hair growing through the dark locks, the way that the slope of his brow made his resting face appear slightly melancholic. He was a disarmingly beautiful man. No wonder I responded so eagerly when he leaned in to kiss me that night - my subconscious had already recognised that attraction, and was speaking on my behalf.

Matty steered me towards a glass door built into one of the renovated grain stores, behind which it was possible to glimpse the crowd of people milling around the gallery. A beefy security guard stood beside a spindly woman, who was checking names off a guest list.

‘God, I don’t know what this is gonna be like,’ he muttered under his breath, reluctance seeping into his voice. ‘Kind of why I wanted your company, if I’m honest.’

‘I thought you said this was put on by a good mate of yours?’

‘Well, yeah. But his time will be monopolised by other people, probably, and it’s awkward as hell to just mill about looking absolutely witless if you don’t know anyone else. Even worse when they think they know _you_.’

I tried to keep a straight face, amused at the sight of the normally smooth-talking Matty being reduced to skittishness. ‘Look, they have free champagne. That went down well last time, hm?’

‘True,’ he brightened a little. ‘Don’t be afraid to tell me to snap out of it, if I get a bit in my head, yeah?’

‘I won’t,’ I laid a hand on his upper arm lightly, in what I hoped would seem a reassuring manner. Although I would have done this without a second thought before, the action now felt loaded with meaning, but in the next moment we were on the other side of the glass door, and I had no time to overthink.

He needn’t have worried, really; Matty attracted genuinely interesting people to him like a magnet. Within minutes, he was drawn into conversation with two art students, and then a videographer he had once worked with, who finally dragged their mutual friend, apparently a playwright, into the circle. He introduced me, a broad smile now illuminating his features again, and I glowed with pride to hear myself described as ‘a wonderful artist’. On occasion, we would be split up by divergent conversations, or commentaries on the work in front of us (which in truth, I couldn’t tell you much about, being too distracted). But a turn of the head or brief glance around told me he was nearby again, grabbing me another drink, bending around slightly to whisper a funny comment in my ear.

After half an hour or so, I wandered through the gallery, breaking away from the huddles of conversing people, and walked into a room that was darkened, containing a projector and a hard wooden bench. It took my eyes a second longer than usual to focus, since the champagne had induced a woozy sort of fuzziness in my head, compounded by the cocktail from the interview at the hotel bar. Projected on the wall opposite, the continuously playing film was that of a crowd of people in black and white - what appeared to be archival material from a protest in a large city, maybe sometime in the seventies judging by the haircuts. The frame concentrated on the faces of the protesters, apoplectic with rage, spittle flying as they chanted impassioned slogans in a language I didn’t recognise, possibly Slavic. And then the camera stepped back, zooming outwards and revealing the wider context. The sound changed with the frame, and as the tightly packed crowd were revealed to be huddled together in an almost Edenic meadow, their cries grew fainter and less audible, until their mouths opened in silent O’s and only the twittering of birds could be heard, the resonant sweep of wind through tree branches and tall grasses. The screen faded to black and ran some brief credits, before the protesters’ clamouring filled the screen again, blinding and deafening; I flinched, immediately feeling embarrassed, as a figure walked out from the shadowy corners of the room to sit beside me on the bench. I had intended to watch the film’s first minute over again, to see if it appeared any different now I knew how it ended, but was interrupted.

‘Joanna?’

My breath caught in my throat in surprise at seeing Robin’s face illuminated in the light of the projector, and my reaction was delayed as a result. This irritated me, since I didn’t want to give off an impression of anything other than total composure. ‘Bloody hell. Hey.’

Satisfied that I had registered his presence fully, he went in for an over-friendly hug, and I returned it awkwardly. He looked different, in some ways - the blonde hair was cropped shorter, though still long enough on top to touch his brow. And his style was dialled down, understated, a far cry from the foppish young man I had once seen strut about in Gucci silks and vintage Dior Homme. Hedi Slimane wouldn’t look twice at _this_ iteration of Robin, bless him, but I doubted he was much bothered these days.

‘How are you?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Pretty good, thanks. My girlfriend Heather helped to put all this together,’ - he waved a hand airily at the projector, and the exhibition on the other side of the door - ‘she teaches at St Martins. And anyway, I thought I’d drop by to support.’ He peered at me imperiously, and I got the distinct impression that he was trying to work out if I had changed anything about my appearance. ‘Wow… I’m glad I bumped into you. Things have happened fast for you, right?’

‘Right,’ I blinked, wondering how on earth I could compress the last six months into small talk. ‘It’s a rollercoaster, you know… just clinging on, trying your best, enjoying the ride while it lasts.’

‘It’ll last.’ He was trying to be earnest, I could tell, but it wasn’t quite working. ‘You always knew where you were headed, really.’

‘Thanks,’ I brushed his comment aside uneasily. ‘What are you doing these days?’

‘My brother hooked me up with a good position at his company, I’m an account manager there.’

 _Fucking hell, Robin’s a yuppie._ I made a mental note to take this item of gossip back to Helen. ‘Oh, nice. Still living in Dalston?’

‘Hell no. I’m in Wapping now, it’s dead peaceful,’ he boasted. ‘Listen... Jo,’ he touched my elbow lightly and I sensed with dread that he had something other than small talk on his mind. ‘I noticed you’re here with, um… with _him_. We didn’t leave things too well last time, on that note. I hoped we could straighten it out.’

 _Oh, Jesus._ The baying crowd was quieting again, the camerawork panning outwards.

‘Maybe I overreacted,’ I winced. ‘I was just getting defensive.’

‘You’ve probably dealt with much weirder situations since that party. I know you can handle yourself, and I’m sorry. Honest to god, I am.’

I hoped the surprise didn’t show in my face, but I was taken aback at his apology. I still didn’t trust him much - this was probably some sort of catharsis for him, entirely self-serving and all at the expense of making _me_ feel awkward. Robin seemed like a stranger to me now, and in a way, he was. Time had shown me that any interest he once held was merely based on his status, and sex appeal. We didn’t quite understand each other, at any rate.

‘It’s okay,’ I lied casually, desperate for the interaction to end.

‘Good, okay. Thank you.’ And he got to his feet abruptly, as if to confirm my suspicions, and swept out of the room. He swayed a little as he walked, almost bumping into the doorframe, and with a sinking feeling, I realised that he had been completely drunk.

‘God, that was odd,’ I muttered under my breath, hoisting my bag over my shoulder again as I got my bearings. A giggly group of three art students entered suddenly, pointing and whispering at the film. Behind them, I could see Matty gingerly edging past, spotting me perched at one end of the bench.

He still looked tired, but relieved to see me. ‘You alright? You look a bit spooked.’ The crowd started their frenzy again, and he jumped slightly. ‘Fucking hell, no wonder. They’re a bit worked up, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, I’m alright,’ I got to my feet in a daze. ‘Can we go?’

‘Of course.’ And he took my hand.

***

‘Bollocks!’

For the second time in ten minutes, the aim of Matty’s strategically placed pool cue sent the white ball rolling blithely into the sock in the corner.

‘Two goes for me, _thank_ you very much!’ I cackled. ‘I’m getting another drink first. Refill?’

‘Go on then. Doubt it will improve my aim though.’

Matty flopped down onto one of the decrepit chairs in the pool bar with a sigh of resignation. I grinned down at him, taking his empty pint glass from the table. We were in a pretty grotty end of Camberwell, where he was at no risk of being recognised, or if he was, it was only by sniffy hipsters who considered themselves too cool to say anything or make a fuss. I couldn’t quite remember which of us had decided to venture south - he gave the taxi driver a hefty tip, because we changed our minds a couple of times along the way, incurring a couple of grumbles in the process. But for most of the ride, he had pulled my legs across his lap whilst expounding his opinion on the principle of assessing art, elitism in art, and how much he liked a particular Italian restaurant that we passed on Borough High Street. It made me laugh, to hear his mind jump about restlessly, and I watched him sleepily, gazing out of the window with a childlike curiosity and turning back whenever he had said something forcefully, his eyes widening and one hand tapping my knee as he spoke.

I was fully awake again by the time the cool night air in Camberwell hit me; the taxi driver dropped us off right outside the pool bar I had in mind. And there we had paid the table deposit, and slowly sank a pint of Guinness each. The place stayed open until two in the morning, and the bell for last orders was rung just as I reached the bar again. The pints sloshed over the sides of the glasses as I walked back; a voice in the back of my mind called for food, to help soak it all up soon.

‘I am so out of practice. You know I’ve just watched this fella sink two at _once_?’ Matty gestured towards the men playing sullenly at the table opposite us. ‘Bloody depressing.’

‘That’s one word for it,’ I grinned down at him as I passed him his drink. ‘I don’t think you want to end up like either of them. They look like they’ve been coming here for thirty years.’

He sighed dramatically. ‘A simpler life.’

‘Matty, how often do you cross the river? Be honest.’

‘Twice a year.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘That was a confident answer.’

‘You know, a couple of nights in North Greenwich... this little place, you might have heard of it - ow! I’m just - you know! A little arena!’ He pulled away, dissolving into laughter as I whacked him on the arm.

‘Don’t be so facetious! Mr Notting Hill,’ I teased, trying to sustain a withering tone.

‘Ladbroke Grove, please get it right.’

‘Still undeniably posh.’

‘Oh, yeah, and you’re practically on the edge of, what… Balham? Yuppie territory.’

I perched on the edge of the pool table, swinging my legs in between gulps of beer. ‘Muggings are low around my ends, I’ll have you know. It’s completely worth the ungodly rent.’

Matty crossed and uncrossed his legs as he sat back in the chair, gazing up at me indulgently from under his lashes. It was an air that I cherished, when he was entirely at ease in my company and so clearly content, as though he wouldn’t ask for anything more in the world at that moment. It was the same expression, the same feeling that I detected when we were sprawled across the plush cinema chairs at the party, curled up at either end of his sofa, giggling over hors d’oeuvres in the hotel and over the phone as I swaddled myself in my duvet.

I swung my leg out again, tapping his knee with my foot playfully. ‘We’ll be kicked out of here soon. Are you hungry?’

‘Starved.’

‘Down that then, quick as you can,’ I tapped the rim of the half empty pint glass. ‘I know a place nearby, does great bacon sarnies all night.’

The fatigue was hitting me now. I rubbed my eyes as I gathered up my jumper and bag, and watched as Matty tipped the glass back. There was a twenty-four hour cafe down the road, the sort that served egg and chips for construction workers, and perfect, nostalgic bacon and white bread sandwiches. We slid into a booth ten minutes later, after sharing a cigarette outside, and I ordered for both of us.

‘Long day. Long _night_. I’m knackered, Jo,’ Matty rested his chin in his hand as he fiddled with the hair behind his ear, the pale, cold light of the cafe making him look rather ethereal. His phone buzzed as our sandwiches were placed in front of us, and he tossed it carelessly on the table, ignoring the message but turning the screen to show me the pictures he had taken earlier that evening.

‘Look, so this is one of the pieces that caught my eye… I thought it was sick, I might email the guy who did it and see if I can put him in touch with art direction… there’s that weird sculpture that looked like a toe, remember it was on a plinth in the middle? Weird stuff… oh yeah, here’s the ones I took of you. The consummate professional.’

He flicked through the images: me wielding the pool cue like a lightsaber, me leaning across the pool table to nail a difficult shot, me sticking my tongue out in gleeful defiance as I had probably just thrashed him in a game. ‘Do you mind if I post one?’

My reflex was to respond yes, automatically, but I caught myself. The stylist’s assistant’s words echoed in my ears and I stiffened in my seat slightly. ‘Um… hypothetically, no. But I’ve been thinking… and I’m sorry if this comes across as paranoid. Promise you won’t think I’m mad?’

‘Of course not.’ Matty pushed his phone aside, knitting his brows together in concern.

‘I’ve had a bunch of people try to get in my head about this. People that know already, or have seen us. And I don’t give a shit about their _opinions_ , I just don’t want to bring, like… heat on myself. You know what I mean? One less thing to worry about, what with all the other crap,’ I waved a hand around nervously. ‘This is a fucking weird time, I dunno.’

He paused to take this in, studying the dated pattern in the formica tabletop whilst he put his words together. ‘Yeah. I mean, I won’t say anything, you don’t need to worry about that. But Jo,’ - here his hand closed over mine, his thumb massaging my knuckles, and I felt a rush of affection towards him - ‘what sort of stuff has been said?’

I recounted the incident at the shoot, feeling more and more shamefaced. Repeating the words out loud made them seem ridiculous, and myself even more so for giving them credence. But Matty was sympathetic, even outraged.

‘Well, he sounds like a poisonous cunt, for a start,’ he retorted, ‘and anyone with taste or judgement or _ears_ could tell your success is all down to your own exceptional work. Jesus, what a twat,’ Matty’s voice softened. ‘And don’t apologise - _don’t_ , Jo, because we’ve all been there. Sometimes sharp words hurt when you’re feeling a bit exposed. A lot of this stuff is still new, you’re practically feeling exposed every day. At the outset, it’s like being constantly naked, or stripping every day.’

I snorted at this. ‘Kinky.’

‘It’s true though!’ His serious face broke, boyish laughter slipping out. ‘Maybe that’s poor wording. But don’t worry, these won’t go anywhere,’ he added, tapping his phone for emphasis. ‘Except maybe my lock screen.’

‘It does make sense. And thank you,’ I conceded, blushing a little. ‘Don’t let your bacon sandwich go cold, I paid three quid for that. That’s gourmet shit.’

I squeezed out ketchup for both of us, trying to rest my incessant inner monologue, but I found it buzzing. Sometimes, I hardly knew what to make of his words.

***

The scarf I had looped around Matty’s neck in Granary Square was stuffed in the top of my bag, redundant, as we stepped out of the cafe to hear the twittering of some very early birds, a disorientating sound at 3am.

‘Do you ever get night buses?’ He asked, and lit another cigarette.

‘Not as much as I used to. But even though I can afford not to… sometimes it’s quite nice. Sorts out writer’s block pretty well, I just start typing lyric ideas onto my phone if I don’t have a pen.’

‘I mostly remember getting kicked _off_ night buses, back home. Usually because someone threw up on the top deck.’

‘Bet you a tenner that someone was you.’

‘George, actually. He can confirm. You owe me.’

‘Damn it,’ I took the cigarette from him. ‘Isn’t it a bit of a trek for you now, to get back? Just come to Streatham, crash at mine.’

‘Won’t Helen mind?’

‘She’s gone for a few days, visiting her brother. Go on, it’s only about ten minutes in an Uber.’ I smoked to appear as casual as possible, and held his gaze steadily, despite being acutely aware of my thumping pulse.

Matty didn’t need it spelling out either. He studied my face briefly and took the cigarette from my hand as I held it aloft. ‘Alright. Thanks, Jo.’

*******

In the Uber, he almost fell asleep, his head lolling on his shoulder in the long wool coat. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my overactive brain throwing up wild scenarios all over again.

‘Matty,’ I murmured, nudging him gently once we got to Streatham. ‘We’re here.’

He regained some energy, following me up the steps and inside. If it felt weird stepping into Matty’s home, it was even more surreal seeing him walk through my battered front door, all wide-eyed and slightly rumpled. ‘It’s gorgeous. Exactly the kind of place I imagined you living.’

‘You can have a poke around if you want, be nosy. I don’t mind. I’ll only be two minutes.’ I ducked into the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. _Fucking hell, Joanna, just a bit rough._ My unbrushed hair had mercifully been obedient, but I had darkening circles under my eyes, and the little make-up I started the day with had largely vanished. Slightly dazed, I wiped the remnants off, and sat on the toilet with the lid down, not even needing to pee but just wanting to take a moment. There had been countless times when I had sat there in a semi-drunken state, staring at the white panelled door in front of me for so long that I saw imaginary patterns blooming in the blank paint. But now was not the time for navel-gazing, and outside, Matty’s feet could be heard padding back and forth, from the creaking floorboards. My inner monologue frantically debated the likelihood that we would have sex, but he was far from the lecherous type, and my anxiety about being rejected was still too great for me to consider reigniting whatever had been sparked the previous week in Soho, regardless of how much the thought of sleeping with him was beginning to thrill me. I splashed water on my face, dried it off and opened the door. Matty stood in the doorway to my bedroom, adorable in just his t-shirt, pants and socks. His legs were pale and slender, just like the rest of him; I tried hard not to stare, but it wasn’t easy.

‘I can sleep on the sofa, if you want,’ he said apologetically.

‘Don’t be silly, there’s room for us both in bed.’

I rummaged for pyjamas in a drawer. It seemed prudish to change anywhere else, so I sat on the edge of the bed and stripped off, trying to be casual about it, without making eye contact. Whether Matty looked, I didn’t know - by the time I had changed and got into bed, he was already under the covers, and I rolled onto my side to face him. His eyes were half-closed, but they snapped open to meet my gaze, dark and round with sleep.

‘Thank you for this evening,’ he said softly.

‘Don’t thank me,’ I tucked a hand under my face, ‘you were the one who invited me.’

‘But you know… you came along and bestowed your company. And as always, you outshone everyone.’ Matty’s words were slurring a little now, and I wondered if half of them were just sleep talking. ‘You take up all my attention, without even trying.’

They were clumsy, unfiltered words, but he still comfortably held my gaze. A voice in my head urged: _touch me. Please, so I know I’m not imagining this. Touch me and make it real._ He pressed his lips together, wetting them slightly, and I closed my eyes, anticipating them against mine. But the contact never came.

When my eyes reopened, he lay in front of me, quite angelically, and apparently asleep. His eyelashes were dark and surprisingly long, the delicately bowed pink lips parted as his breath slowed and steadied. My ability to stay awake was waning, and I could feel myself dropping off, the darkness and warmth enveloping me. But somewhere in that liminal space, between consciousness and a blank stupor, I vaguely registered a hand finding mine across the sheets, fingers interlinking and holding it there, in the space between our faces.

***

I woke before Matty, and immediately wished I hadn’t. It gave me far too much time to replay the previous evening, and no means of distracting myself, since I couldn’t move an inch without disturbing him. His hand still clasped mine, his breath gently fanning across my wrist, and our knees touched, but he was still dead to the world, his face slack and pressed into the pillows. _Shit_.

On this occasion a lie-in was not what I needed. I had no clue how much he usually slept, but we had reached the flat at four, and it was now ten in the morning - he could justifiably sleep another two hours yet. I lay there and waited for the grogginess to lift from my head, growing increasingly aware of the sun streaming in through the gap in my curtains, gradually heating up the room to an almost uncomfortable degree. It was no use, I had to prise myself away and get up.

Matty must have been a light sleeper, since he stirred as soon as I removed my hand and kicked the duvet away gingerly. ‘Hey,’ he mumbled, rolling onto his front and smiling sleepily at me. ‘Your bed is so… so comfy.’

‘Sleep some more, if you want. It’s ten, we’ve only had six hours.’

‘Ten?’ He jerked upright, suddenly agitated. ‘Oh shit, that’s not good.’

‘Why? You’re entitled to a lazy day, I’m sure.’

‘Yeah, not today. It’s a studio day, which means I can’t be a dick and keep people waiting. Where the hell did I leave my trousers?’ He rubbed at his eyes and peered into the corners of the room, clearly flustered.

‘I’ll make coffee, just get yourself together and come through to get some when you’re ready.’ I tried to pacify him, faintly crestfallen at the thought of him leaving so quickly. ‘And is that them over my wardrobe door?’

The kitchen overlooked the street, which was a peaceful suburban one and deathly quiet, something I was normally thankful for. But if I wanted to occupy myself, create the illusion of calm normality, I needed to fill my ears, so I stuck the radio on as the kettle boiled, a low rumble of white noise combined with whoever was playing a live session from Maida Vale.

Of course it had to come to an end, our little excursion and precious time. I placed two mugs on the table beside where Helen’s Minimoog was still set up. We had no separate studio in the flat, so the living room functioned as our studio, with one wall taken up by equipment and the large hi-fi, whilst the others carried remnants of the rest of our lives, the books and boxes, and a strangely hardy pot plant that had followed me from home to home for four years. Matty’s coat was slung over the back of the armchair, and for a tiny, very brief second, I allowed myself to picture it hung up on the back of my bedroom door, a drawer of his clothes in my room, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom.

‘That smells great, oh my god.’ Matty emerged from my room and peered into the living room, eyeing up the steaming mugs of coffee. ‘Ah, the famous Moog. We’ve got one too, full size. I can’t stop messing around with it.’ He smiled down at the keyboard lovingly.

‘It’s our pride and joy, now,’ I crossed my arms and cocked my head to one side to subtly look him up and down; he looked fresh and relaxed, totally radiant. ‘Drink up. What’s on the schedule for today?’

‘Overdubbing vocals, mainly. Not nearly as exciting as _our_ studio session,’ he winked jauntily.

I sat on the arm of the sofa to stop myself from dithering awkwardly as Matty finished his coffee, hating the small talk but cherishing these final minutes. He opened the front door before turning to say goodbye, but it had begun to rain, fat droplets spotting the tarmac on the pavement outside.

‘I have an umbrella you can borrow.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he flipped the collar of his coat up again. ‘See?’

‘Alright, if you’re sure. I’m doing press most of the week, but I’ll be free in the evenings if you’re around.’

‘Lovely. Okay, I’ll call you.’ He squeezed me in a tight hug that lingered, longer and with more feeling than the sweet, friendly embraces from before. As he pulled away, I couldn’t stop myself from keeping hold of his arms and voicing my disbelief.

‘ _Matty_. If we’re saying goodbye, you can kiss me, you know.’

Something in his expression flickered, and seemed to drop away. He took my face in his hands gently, and the accumulated nervous energy I had harboured suddenly dissipated, much more than I was aware of holding. His lips upon mine felt like the most natural, homely thing in the world. In my mind, I was back in the hotel kitchen at the awards ceremony - except, no, I wasn’t - that was the sound of my front door closing again, shutting out the stinging breeze and rain-on-tarmac smell, and the paranoia never came.

It had started as a simple, tender kiss, but now Matty clutched me like a man starved of touch, and I responded with equal enthusiasm, tilting my head to deepen it, sucking his tongue into my mouth as his hand snaked around my waist, tugging me tightly towards him. His teeth grazed my bottom lip as I caught my breath.

‘Don’t you need to-’

‘No, fuck that. It can wait.’ His words thrilled me, darkly intoning whatever his plans were. Truly, I neither minded nor cared, not when he leaned into me, his narrow hips digging sharply into mine and his breath becoming heavier. The very idea that I turned him on so much was electrifying.

Stepping backwards as we became entangled, my subconscious guided me to lean against the arm of the sofa again; I adored the feeling of his capable hands on me, the way they explored and handled my body as they delved under my shirt to brush across the warm skin of my midriff. I pushed his coat off his shoulders and he took a moment to wriggle out of the sleeves, dropping it to the floor carelessly.

‘Sit down, over there,’ Matty said quietly, suddenly. I took a couple of backward steps until I was able to sit back on the sofa, and his kisses followed as he bent down before me, finally kneeling between my legs. I watched him with hypnotic fascination, the way he tracked my reaction to each tiny movement with his gaze. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No,’ I breathed, dizzy with anticipation. ‘Not at all.’ He pulled me roughly towards him by my hips, tugging the pyjama pants over my knees until he was facing my crotch, his hands running up my thighs and encouraging the space between them to widen. Matty leaned forward, positioning himself further between my legs as his lips traced a path from the hollow above my collar bone and upwards to my jaw, his tongue interlacing with mine slowly. Without warning, he delicately stroked over my underwear, and my breathing became deep and convulsive. My fingers twisted in the hair at the back of his head, signalling my pleasure as he circled his fingers more firmly. This was so different to the frenzy at the awards, making out like kids, the novelty of intimacy. _This_ was Matty trying his damnedest to titillate me, and it was working.

When he pulled away, I knew what was coming, and squirmed into the sofa cushions. He grinned devilishly as he slipped my underwear over my knees. I felt momentarily exposed, even self-conscious, but those inhibitions evaporated as soon as his mouth pressed to the top of my pubic bone, and I half-gasped, throwing my head back against the sofa.

His broad tongue flickered out, licking a clean line up the centre and coming to settle over my clitoris as he focused his attention there. And all the while, his familiar, gleaming, dark eyes teasingly tracked my stare, watching my hands curl into fists on the cushions. _I’m so, so fucked,_ my internal monologue rambled, _he really knows what he’s doing, holy shit_. Matty really did, his tongue slipping skilfully inside and prompting my thighs to clamp together; he pushed back at them and broke eye contact finally, strong fingers gripping my thighs, his head tilted forward so that his hair skimmed the ticklish skin of my lower abdomen. He was determined, intermittently humming in appreciation - he seemed to be rather enjoying himself now, and I wasn’t really in control of my body, not any more, letting my legs slip and throwing my shoulders back, my eyes closing in ecstasy.

Somewhere in the background, a phone buzzed jarringly from deep inside Matty’s coat pocket, but he didn’t react, and showed no inclination to let up until I had climaxed. His hand found mine at the side of my body, and squeezed in encouragement whilst his mouth insistently drew out tingling streams of pleasure that coursed down the backs of my legs and up my back. The buzzing stopped, and immediately after, the furious energy between my hips hit its peak, and I came hard. In my rapture I reached down to caress his face, which shone with satisfaction, and when he pulled away, his features had visibly relaxed into a wide, triumphant smile.

‘Wow,’ I laughed a little in wonder, still catching my breath.

‘Now _that’s_ the reaction I was looking for,’ Matty rose from his knees and got to his feet, pulling me up with him, and I kissed him appreciatively, tasting myself on his tongue; I shivered at the illicit nature of it.

His phone buzzed again, repeatedly, and I broke away, bending to pull up my underwear. ‘You should probably get that, you know. I’ve kept you for far too long.’

‘Alright, alright… look at you, keeping me on the straight and narrow… oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he groaned. ‘Two voicemails. They mean business.’

‘Go,’ I poked him gently in the chest. ‘I’ll still be around in a few hours.’

Watching Matty rush out now was far less dispiriting than it had been ten minutes ago, as he hastily wrapped my borrowed scarf around his neck and jumped down the steps from my porch, rounding the corner onto the main road to hail a taxi. Instead, a warm post-orgasmic glow inhabited my body, and I wandered about the flat in a daze. With nothing planned for the day, I showered dreamily and lounged around the place in a state of half-dress, swathed in a large cardigan, damp hair drying slowly around my shoulders. I made my bed up again, and lifted the pillows to my face, inhaling deeply. Yes, I could still smell him - it was a warm scent that reminded me of something else, so familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I threw the pillow down, shaking my head at myself for being so weird.

Every few seconds, if I allowed my mind to cast back, I could still feel the imprint of his touch on me and summon the vision of his face between my legs. The transition wasn’t quite as surreal as it had been after the kiss in the kitchens - that had truly been a shock, but at least this time I could pre-empt it. Hell, I had even incited it, in my impatience, but that was probably a good thing. I wondered what might have happened if I hadn’t pulled Matty back momentarily. When would we have crossed that invisible line again, opening up to lustful impulse? Why he had refrained from initiating anything in the night was still a mystery to me. 

My mind wandered to our last exchange, and the knowledge that in the evening we would resume whatever had been started. I rather enjoyed looking forward to it, in a way that I hadn’t been able to in previous relationships. _Shit_ , I realised, I had only ever slept with people in the context of a relationship. So that was two previous partners, both quite sweet in their own way, but neither managing to titillate me quite like Matty did. He was in a league of his own, and I briefly worried whether I would be able to live up to it.

Helen wouldn’t be back for another two days - I could imagine her reaction, once she found out what enormous developments she had missed. Not only that, but she would understand the significance of these events, knowing full well how wary I was of high-stakes sex; any action I had gotten since the end of my last relationship was trivial fare, occasionally - but usually not - satisfying. At least the anxiety of being delegated to ‘fling’ status in Matty’s mind had paled into an afterthought, and I wasn’t consumed with self-consciousness. I certainly hadn’t been that morning, anyway, and I took that as evidence that the chemistry was right.

To not dissociate halfway through during sex (or anything physical) was rare for me. Too often I found myself taking a mental step back, detaching, thinking _I am really doing this right now - I am doing this, with this person, oh my god, and it’s not even good._ But with Matty, I was so consumed by my strength of feeling that to find my consciousness relinquishing control was now no cause for alarm; it was only catharsis, and pure pleasure.


	6. Ladbroke Grove.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being rudely interrupted that morning, Joanna and Matty resume what they started. But busy lives must continue, and Helen has a far more practical attitude towards the inevitable clash of business and pleasure.

_ Tonight (I Wish I Was Your Boy) _

_ (Beach House - Levitation) _

Twelve hours later I was stuck into re-reading Crome Yellow, my feet elevated above my head as I lolled sideways in the armchair, when my phone started to vibrate. The book snapped closed instantly in my hand when I read the caller ID.

‘Hey, how was it?’

‘I got a minor bollocking, but nothing too bad. And the vocals are shaping up nicely,’ Matty chirped, airily at first, but then dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m still west… do you want to come to mine?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed, already pacing to my bedroom to change. ‘Shall I bring anything?’

‘Wine? You choose something. And then we can continue where we left off.’ I could practically hear the smile curling his lips upwards.

‘Perfect. I’ll be no more than an hour.’

The thought of getting public transport for this was unappealing; I didn’t want anybody else’s eyes on me except Matty’s. I called a cab after brushing my hair out and changing into a dress - easy to remove, I figured, as though it even mattered at this point. The driver dropped me off in Ladbroke Grove, and I picked up the wine from an off-licence before walking down the side streets, acutely aware that I was retracing steps I had taken six months previously, albeit with far different intentions. The evening was mild for April, the air still heavy and humid from the rain that fell earlier in the day.

Matty had changed too, when he opened the door, barefoot but now sporting scruffy blue jeans that had been washed to within an inch of their life, and a soft green jumper. I wished so badly that I could freeze time and capture the image of him, a perfect picture, a man I was drawn to as though he was lit up from within. He held my gaze steadily for a second as he leaned against the door, apparently enjoying the sight too.

‘Hello. You were very quick.’

‘Was I?’ I stepped over the threshold into the hallway, feeling the cool, calm concrete walls of the house enveloping me. Having known him better since the last time I had walked through the door, nothing was a surprise any longer; it made sense, the way that everything was laid out and furnished, the atmosphere of his home. The knot of pressure in my stomach dissolved, and I suddenly felt entirely serene. ‘I’m glad you didn’t get in too much trouble.’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered either way,’ Matty reached towards me and pulled me in by my waist. His kisses were urgent, excitable - I barely kept hold of the bag with the wine, setting it down on the dining table by the time he had released me.

‘I can’t be arsed with opening that bottle now, can you?’ I confessed, turning back to him hopefully. He wore a glowing expression on his face, the longest tendrils of dark hair falling to frame it as he stood in the kitchen doorway, and when he spoke, it was with a hint of impatience.

‘Nope. I don’t really want to cloud my head,’ he held out his hand. ‘Come upstairs.’

‘You really committed to the aesthetic, didn’t you?’ I giggled; Matty’s bedroom was much like the rest of his house: sparsely arranged, with cool, tranquil grey walls, against one of which there lay a stack of books. I looked at the bed, and the smooth sheets we were about to disturb.

‘You say that but I still have a lot in storage. Just give me a few months and it’ll be organised chaos,’ he rolled his eyes facetiously. ‘I love it when you get horny for interiors.’

Now some the impatience had calmed, and was replaced by the slow joy of acquainting our bodies fully with one another. Matty lifted my dress over my hips and I pulled it the rest of the way over my head, remembering the thrill of undressing with a man’s eyes on me. I ran my hands under his t-shirt to do the same, and privately marvelled at his body as it was revealed, lissom and pale, more tattoos uncovered bit by bit. He wasn’t thin necessarily, but he might have been if he was a bit taller, the taut, narrow expanse of his stomach dusted with a faint trail of dark hairs that disappeared beneath the unbuttoned waistband of his jeans. In a joint effort, I pushed them over his hips, and when he kicked them off, it was apparent that he was hard already. The pulse between my legs quickened at the thought that I turned him on so much.

‘You know, once or twice I imagined what this would be like, with you... but the real thing is miles better,’ Matty grinned, tracing a line down my spine with his fingertips before letting his hands rest either side of my waist. We were both enjoying the novelty of so much skin-to-skin contact without restraint. Although his hands were cool, his body was the same temperature as mine, and to be pressed against him, chest to chest, felt delicious.

I smiled indulgently, pushing my hips into his. ‘You pervert. _I_ didn’t even consider it.’

‘Don’t lie,’ he retorted and pulled away, making me shriek with laughter as he hoisted me over to the bed, collapsing down on the edge of the mattress and dragging me down with him. ‘You _did_ , but you didn’t imagine it would be this much fun.’ I clung to him, squeezing my legs around his waist and sinking into his lap, pushing his hair back from his face and cradling it in my hands, touching the sleek, thick brows, the shadows under his eyes and the curved, blushed lips that parted under my fingers; he stuck his tongue out playfully at me, trying to catch my fingertips with it. I hadn’t done an upper since I was nineteen, but being nose to nose with Matty was like a coke rush that didn’t end.

‘I should have known, I guess,’ I said softly, brushing my lips over his before gently kissing his mouth. He snaked a hand down over my bottom, greedily cupping it and pulling me tightly against him, so that his erection dug into my crotch. I rolled my hips instinctively, enjoying the small reactive sounds he made, muttering four-letter words intermittently. Matty’s mouth lowered to my breasts as I lengthened my back, focusing his tongue intently on each nipple. Without warning, he pitched backwards onto the mattress again, and I straddled him, balanced on my knees. Becoming almost unbearably turned on, I boldly grasped his cock through the thin underwear; it was firm and substantial and his eyelids fluttered with pleasure. I grinned. His hands reached up to toy with the ends of my hair as my face hovered over his. ‘Jo… fucking hell.’

I pushed the elastic down, taking him into my hand, raw desire raging inside me. ‘How do you want to do this?’ I grinned at his glazed expression, leaning down to suck gently at his neck, just beneath his jaw.

‘Fuck, oh fuck... I can’t even remember what I imagined any more. We can improvise, right? Honestly… I’m happy just to have you naked and in my bed.’

I slipped off Matty momentarily to tug my knickers down and throw them to one side, and he sat up, his hands immediately drifting to the exposed skin that was level with his face, his mouth swirling over the ticklish spot just below my stomach. His hands drifted in the same direction, his fingers already circling my clit and making me convulse slightly from the pleasure. But the morning’s activities had ensured I had never really been turned _off_ since, and this time I wanted to come with him inside. ‘Lie back, let me.’

Staring hungrily at me, Matty slumped back onto the bed, and I crawled over him, pulling his cock up to slide against my clit, pushing it back bit by bit. His tongue played distractingly with mine, and I had to pause, momentarily, to get the right angle, but when I slowly lowered down, taking him inside, he rolled his head back into the sheets. ‘Fuck me, you feel so good.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ I murmured, focusing my attention on balancing astride him, and hitting my rhythm. As soon as we were both comfortable, the need to be physically close again was all-consuming, and Matty sat up, wrapping an arm around my waist to carry some of my weight even as he thrust upwards. It was overwhelming, to look him full in the face and simultaneously feel him deep within me - an alien, intoxicating sensation. In a rush of euphoria it occurred to me that in that moment, I would have said yes to whatever he asked, whatever he wanted to do to me or with me - I wanted it, and trusted him. The contortions of our faces spurred each other on until an almost pained expression struck him, and he brought his mouth down onto my neck and chest again, his breath hot against my skin.

‘Matty,’ I gasped, ‘turn me over.’

He slipped out, for an agonising few seconds. ‘Want me to fuck you from behind?’

‘Yeah…’ I loved the way he asked, matter-of-factly but with a tone that said he would relish it. I rested on my front, hips jutting up to meet his. He kissed across my shoulders, sucking at the spot between my ear and my jaw as he held my legs apart; when he pushed inside me again it was twice as intense, as he slid a hand underneath to press against my clit. I turned my head to the side, watching in my peripheral vision as he exerted himself over me, pushing my hips down and closing my legs a little. I knew this felt good for him, the tightening of my internal grip, and he leaned down over me as he fucked recklessly. He was so slight that his weight on top of me was comfortable, but it helped to add to the pressure on my clitoris, around which I felt the glorious familiar glow building, and flexed my back, pushing up against Matty’s body as I willed it to climax.

He felt my hips shudder, and urged me on. ‘Come on Jo… fuck…’ I loved hearing my own name in his panting voice, and buried my face in the sheets as I gasped again, louder than before. His pelvis dug into me rhythmically as I rode out the orgasm, and he propped himself up slightly. ‘I want to look at you when I come.’

He flipped me onto my back, and I was faintly aware of the blissed-out expression on my own face as I yielded to his hold. The first inklings of a second wave tickled pleasurably at me; I found it extremely erotic to watch him work towards his own orgasm. His hips struck mine more forcefully now as his movement quickened, and he clutched at me and halted mid-thrust, releasing inside. His lips caught up with mine, groaning fiercely. Perceptively, he registered the mild grinding of my restless hips, and as he came to rest beside me, his hand returned, massaging my slick labia until I clenched sharply and placed my own hand over his, holding his fingertips tightly in place to sustain the pleasure.

We lay there for a while after, similarly awestruck, catching our breath. Matty withdrew his hand finally, licking his fingers clean with a wicked smile. I was still trying to take in the sheer carnality of what we had just done.

‘Was it what you hoped for?’ I wiggled my brows, shifting to rest my chin on his chest, closing my eyes and basking in the afterglow.

‘More. Way more.’ He twirled sections of my hair dreamily as he spoke. ‘I can’t wait to do it again.’

‘It’ll only get better.’

‘Believe me, I know.’ His fingers edged down over my forehead, danced over the bridge of my nose, and outlined my parted lips. ‘It’s pretty trippy, when we’re in the middle of it and you get the most fiery look on your face. Like you’re going to eat me alive.’

‘Oh god, that doesn’t sound hot.’

‘It really is, actually.’

I raised my head slightly to look him directly in the eye. ‘Why on earth didn’t you try it on when you stayed at mine?’

‘You expected me to?’ Matty wondered aloud, clearly amused.

‘Well, I lay there half the night wondering about it.’

‘It would have been a bit of a dick move on my part, wouldn’t it,’ he protested, ‘and what the hell would you have thought of me then?’

I sat fully upright, my hair falling into my face to obscure a smirk, and grabbed his hand playfully. ‘That you were a randy bastard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

‘I’m a respectful randy bastard,’ he pulled our clasped hands towards his mouth, kissing my fingertips lightly. ‘And I think the anticipation makes it even better. Come on, let’s get in the shower, and then I can cook you dinner.’

‘Didn’t realise you were so domestic,’ I teased.

‘It’s all a highly effective charade.’

Matty’s bathroom was thematically consistent, and enormous. I covertly eyed my reflection in the vast mirror before it steamed up, as if the sex had changed anything. He noticed me looking, wrapping an arm across me as we waited for the water to heat up, and I tried to see myself through fresh eyes, or maybe even his eyes - surveying the dark-eyed, dark-haired young people that blinked back, smiling contentedly. Yes, we looked right together; it almost came as a relief, as if receiving the opposite impression would jeopardise the moment. We soaped each other up, indulging in another orgasm each, and when we emerged, he dug through his clothes to find something suitably comfortable. He didn't seem to have a 'stage wardrobe' - everything was piled together, outlandish and simple pieces alike.

Eventually, bundled up in a well-worn sports sweater and some softly tailored trousers, I padded downstairs after Matty, who looked somewhat like a bedraggled duckling while his curls dried from the shower, starting to form a fluffy halo. After raiding the cupboards, he gave up on delusions of culinary grandeur, and settled with frying some bacon and eggs.

‘Breakfast for dinner, I guess… sorry, I wish I’d gotten something in now,’ he frowned as he poked them around the pan with a spatula. ‘God, I’m such a bachelor cliché.’

I peered over his shoulder, my mouth already watering. ‘I’m not complaining, don’t worry. The charade might have failed but domesticity is overrated. Fry-ups are underrated.’

We stayed up late, picking over the food, wrapped up in one another, rambling for hours about the silliest, most banal little things, just because we could. Sleep didn’t come quickly this time, but I didn’t particularly want it to.

***

In the late morning as we woke, Matty and I kissed lazily, then restlessly, hands and bodies tangling up again. I sat astride him, letting him guide my hips until we came, both gasping as I swayed above him. Not only did he turn me on physically, he was easily the most fun I had ever had in bed too, especially compared to past hookups that had made me cringe with their self-serious words and vaguely performative moves. He was playful, quick to laugh, and yet left me in no doubt that he was extremely titillated by my body too, with the way he ran his hands and gaze over it. I couldn’t get enough of him.

‘I would willingly lie here all day with you,’ I mumbled into his shoulder, catching my breath. ‘But I have to get back to meet Helen. We’re going over a press release.’

Matty flicked a lock of my hair between his fingers absent-mindedly, something I noticed he was already forming a habit of. ‘I always find it torturous trying to compress months of work into a neat verbal package. How do you even begin to describe it?’

‘Sarcastically, usually. We’ll make a few references to like… Enya, or ABBA. Ironic but not ironic, in the end.’ Ironic because we both knew there was little delineation when it came to influences or so-called inspiration, although it was always fun to tease people, especially self-important journalists, with slightly flippant promo quotes. ‘But I can’t think straight about that right now.’ I rolled out of bed, bending to retrieve my underwear from where it had fallen in a heap on the floor.

‘It’s selfish of me to want you to stay another day, isn’t it?’ Matty rolled onto his front, resting his chin in his hands and watching me get dressed with a small pout.

‘Yes,’ I teased, shimmying back into my underwear. ‘but rest assured I would stay the entire week if we had no obligations.’ I held out a hand towards him. ‘You have to prep for Australia, I have dull press appointments, both are inescapable. Come on, I’ll make us both some coffee before I go.’

In all the time we had spent together so far, so little of it had been spent in silence. Not because either of us seemed to be afraid of silence between us, but on my part at least, there had always been so much to communicate, in the haste to know and be known. It was part of the glorious tension that exists when you are quite sure that you like someone, and are consumed by the business of investigating that liking, setting a goal to affirm whether they are as wonderful as you hope. But now, as Matty and I perched on opposite sides of his dining table and I watched him sip slowly from a steaming mug, a warm quiet settled over us, the goal achieved. All of our accumulated experience together had made it comparatively easy for me to bare myself to him, both figuratively and literally. This, I was reminded with a sinking feeling, was why I didn’t usually sleep with someone without being in a relationship - yet there was no such label or assurance on what I was doing with Matty, which was alarming.

‘You look like you’re trying to perform Jedi mind tricks on me,’ Matty said quietly, cocking his head sideways as if analysing me. ‘Feeling alright?’

‘Yeah, I am,’ I squirmed in my seat, hoping my expression hadn’t been too transparent.

‘My shit cooking hasn’t put you off coming over then?’ His eyes flashed mischievously.

‘I have nothing against breakfast for dinner. Although I’m not terribly keen on the idea of trekking up here every time…’

‘Oh, come on. I thought you _loved_ the sensual, cool walls of my house. That’s got to be worth the journey, if not my hot body.’

I snorted with laughter. ‘You’re an idiot.’

I kissed Matty goodbye in the hallway, trying to make it sweet rather than heated so neither of us would be tempted to delay any further, and swept out the door.

***

Helen rubbed her hands together in glee when she heard what had happened, insisting on going to the pub as soon as she got back from her brother’s.

‘I love Paul, and his girlfriend means well, but I never want to see another chia seed again in my life. I want to luxuriate in something that _won’t_ do me any good,’ she sighed dramatically, tapping her card sharply on the counter of our local and eyeing up the IPA on tap. ‘So Healy got his mitts on the Moog, did he? I’ll kill him if he’s touched any of those oscillators.’

‘Don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, he’s got more than enough kit of his own to mess about with,’ I laughed, pausing to order half a pint.

‘Oh, lightweight. You’ll need more than that in you to answer all my sordid questions, come on.’

‘Fucking hell, alright,’ I grudgingly asked the bartender to swap the glass out for a full pint just in time. Rather than sit at the hard chairs, we waited for a couple of minutes whilst our favourite corner was vacated, and seized upon the two overstuffed winged armchairs pushed together by the radiator.

‘You got back this morning then? How was last night?’ She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

‘So, so good. I don’t really have words to describe it, to be honest…’ Or I could describe it, but it would seem fetishistic. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘Yes, I expect he does. Years of practice.’

I cast a pained look in her direction. ‘Mm, well. It’s for my benefit now.’ I did wonder occasionally what Matty had been like a few years ago - it was difficult to imagine the sweet-tempered homebody that I knew becoming caught up in the sort of unbridled hedonism I’d heard about.

‘Have you put him on the guestlist for next week?’

‘Not yet. I’m not sure I will, you know.’

‘Why on earth not? He loves our music, or so you’ve led me to believe. Bet you’d love it as well, flaunting yourself onstage and knowing he was watching.’

‘It’s Heaven, hardly an indie club in Hackney. He’d get mobbed.’ Privately, I was nervous about him seeing me perform, knowing the sort of theatrics he regularly pulled off. And perhaps I was also a tiny bit anxious about anyone making the connection between us, thinking I was hitching a ride.

‘Well, I’ve informed Leon that he has a guestlist spot if he wants it. No plus one, mind.’ Leon was the pretty young man I had yanked Helen away from at the awards ceremony. ‘We should run through Graphic and IOU before the show, if you want at least one of them in the encore.’

‘Shouldn’t an encore be a bit unplanned? Always feels nice to leave one of them up to fate… and audiences are forgiving in the last ten minutes.’

‘Sure, if you want me to make a tit of myself in the synth breakdown again,’ Helen snorted, taking a big gulp of her pint. ‘Better safe than sorry. Leave the element of surprise by writing the actual setlist on the day, how about that? I don’t want any other little surprises at this show. I haven’t even checked what press will be there, they might not be quite as generous as the friendly faces pressed against the barrier.’

‘Speaking of which, I hope you’re ready for the Sunday Times tomorrow. The guy they’re sending over has a rep for digging deep. We need to be on top form to avoid looking like dunces.’

‘No chance of that, Jo. We’re too damn charming.’

I met Helen’s grin over our drinks, tapping my foot against hers companionably. With her at my side, it really felt like there was nothing that could topple us.

***

The man from the Times asked to meet us in Soho, in the lobby of the flashy boutique hotel the awards had been held at, no less. We checked the address that Dean sent over moments before ordering an Uber that morning, and almost fell over laughing; I took a picture of the lobby briefly before we found Alistair, the journalist, in the bar, and sent it to Matty ( _recognise this?! here for an interview, wild)._

He was older than the journos we had encountered before, greying slightly at the temples and making a fuss of shaking our hands officiously before we sat down. ‘Ladies, morning, lovely to see you. Shall we ask for anything - tea? Coffee?’

‘Two hot chocolates,’ Helen flashed her most winning smile, and I knew she was gearing up already. ‘Please.’

Alistair engaged us in a discussion of our recording processes, at first - quizzing us both on our individual roles, did we both stick to particular instruments (no), had we always written music together (no, but ninety percent of the time yes), did we have the same or differing influences (wildly differing). It was a relief being able to do interviews with Helen, who had a better memory than me for technical details, but knew when I would have the perfect, succinct input on a more cerebral question.

‘Where are your attentions turning next? I’ve heard whispers that you might appear on some lineups down under, Laneway, Splendour in the Grass… will you be widening your touring prospects next year?’

Helen deferred to me here, since I was in more constant contact with Dean. ‘Definitely, although I can’t speak for those particular festivals. I’ve had my eye on a few European lineups for a while, we’ve happily managed to confirm Primavera. And we’re squeezing in some US dates on the East Coast soon… I’m most excited for that, perhaps.’

Alistair nodded imperiously, and I saw Helen go glassy-eyed out of the corner of my eye, detaching mentally a bit now that it was my turn. ‘So, regarding the EP. I’ve had a hard time trying to pin down some clear influence here, perhaps you could guide me. The opener seems inflected with definite Breeders influence, but you whip right round to Chastity Belt-esque restraint on the next track, with a touch of St Vincent-’

‘Listen, I love those artists,’ I interjected indignantly, ‘but I haven't listened to any of their music at length since I was eighteen. Just because they’re also female doesn’t mean we’re all part of a separate industry. The vocal melody on the opener is actually a massive _Sunflower_ -era Beach Boys rip-off. The rest was the result of listening to Fripp and Eno’s _Evening Star_ on repeat for two weeks and drinking five cups of coffee a day.’

‘And a bit of Kate Bush,’ Helen murmured, though I could tell she had woken up to enjoy my passionate riposte. Somewhat chastened, Alistair bumbled on, but I had been ruffled now, and the rest of my hot chocolate went cold. I made an excuse to go to the toilet, locking myself in one of the ornate, mirrored cubicles and perching on top of the closed toilet lid, allowing the odd ambient background music to wash over me. After a minute or two of quieting my mind chatter, I pulled my phone out to record a sample, wondering if I could get a clear enough clip to warp and mess around in Logic. Several messages had come through, which made me smile stupidly.

_fond memories!!_

_found this in one of my unpacked boxes of books, seems like your thing_ [attached: a photo of a Taschen book on Frank Lloyd Wright]

_ALSO tell me what you like on pancakes. free wednesday PM? xxxxxxxx_

Wednesday - the day after the show at Heaven. _Thank god,_ I thought, _no clash, no excuses._

 _FLW!!! you know me too well!_ I typed back.

_you’re on. lemon and sugar xoxo_

I heard Matty’s voice in my head when I read his messages, his gentle enthusiasm. God, how could I be missing him already? It had barely been twenty-four hours since I left his house. When I got back to the hotel bar, Helen looked at me oddly, although she seemed to have done a decent job of keeping Alistair occupied. He asked a final few perfunctory questions, graciously ended the interview and left us to the lunches that we’d ordered.

‘You took a while in the loo. You alright?’

‘Yeah, fine. Just answering messages.’ I smirked as I said this, knowing she would catch my meaning.

‘ _Oh_. Booty call?’

‘Not exactly,’ I paused, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for.’

‘What do you mean, letting yourself in for? You’re in it, mate. Relax, you sound like you’re bigging it up to be more than it is.’

My heart sank a little at Helen’s words, and I wondered suddenly if I’d been terribly naïve. ‘Am I?’

‘It’s a win-win situation. He’s supportive, he’s gorgeous, you can fool around together,’ she encouraged, waving a hand with enthusiasm. ‘I’d swap any day, I wish Leon had a bit more to say for himself. But he makes up for it in other departments, so…’

Fool around? Was that what we did? I stared into the middle distance and let Helen talk as I reframed the last twenty four hours, horrified at the thought I could have been misreading it all. The eagerness to jump into bed, the easy, light conversation, the knowledge it would all be repeated. It was odd to apply such a casual term to what Matty and I had done, but perhaps that was only because I had never imagined I would get into such a situation. I felt chagrined at the memory of staring into that mirror, relishing the image of us together. Why on earth would he want to get into another relationship, with yet another tour coming up and increasing commitments? Helen was right, it had been win-win thus far, and he had promised me over the phone just a few days ago that I wouldn’t be a one-night stand, at least.

So, this was the easy, straightforward alternative. Hanging out, having a laugh the way we’d always done, plus having sex - regularly. I could be okay with that, I reasoned. Those were all things that I enjoyed with Matty. I’d always thought of myself as a pragmatist, hadn’t I? So it was out of character for me, and totally illogical, to hope for anything more.


	7. Heaven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joanna plays the biggest show of her life so far, and whilst the music is perfect, paranoia begins to encroach upon her. It doesn't help, of course, that Helen has meddled with the guest list...

_ (LCD Soundsystem - american dream - electric lady sessions) _

_ Anobrain _

_ (Radiohead - Knives Out) _

It was an immensely powerful feeling, even when the venue was empty, to stand onstage at Heaven and look out at the brick arches stretching up and back, hearing the occasional rumble of trains overhead going into Charing Cross, and drowning them out with my amplified voice. The sound was excellent, Helen and I agreed as we ran through the new single, taking delight in the way the rolling bass I had worked so hard to EQ was now bouncing roundly off the walls, the manifestation of the ambitious sounds I had first heard in my living room. And once filled with close to a thousand people, it was guaranteed to only get better. Helen copied out the setlist a few times in her neat print lettering, and dinner was delivered to the green room, ready for us to devour before changing into stage clothes.

‘Damn, this was a good idea,’ Helen crowed as she admired her reflection, tugging at the hem of the Fred Perry dress she’d picked up from one of our favourite vintage dealers. ‘It’s like… _This Is England_ but with a better haircut. What a vibe.’

I grinned as I watched her hype herself up, prising my wide trousers from the press and checking the crease. ‘You mean you wouldn’t shave everything except your fringe? You’re just a poser.’

‘Don’t get me started on your hair. Just _do_ something with it, please. I should send you to Mikey, he does such a good dye job…’

‘It’s artfully untouched, I told you. Here, do up my top button, will you?’ I turned to let her fasten the top closure on the antique white blouse I wore. ‘Fuck knows how the Victorians did this. Or if anyone who wore this thing ever managed it themselves.’

‘For god’s sake, don’t get your dinner on it.’ She sniffed at the paper bags on the dressing table. ‘Playing within delivery distance of Chinatown is worth the pain of loading in, I swear.’

Halfway through eating, Dean came to run through the press list with us, letting us know to expect an NME photographer backstage and a quick Q&A after the show, and as a gentle hum of chatter rose from the direction of the main room, so began the stomach churning wait to perform. The support act was a fascinating three-piece, a hyper-tense marriage of Orange Juice and Fugazi, if I had to make comparisons. We watched from the side of the stage as the singer jerked around like a puppet cut free of his strings, apparently oblivious to the curious crowd in front of him, yet entertaining them anyway.

As satisfying as it was to know that my support act was quality, it didn’t help the raging nerves in my gut. I just wanted it to be over and done with, Dean pushing us out onstage and tuning in to performance mode. Helen was in high spirits, shaking my shoulders to get me to move around, forcing me to loosen up a little. I hadn’t planned to drink, but I ended up doing a shot with her in the interlude anyway, blasting the Replacements in the green room with barely a minute to go.

And then the roar, the rush. The motor memory of my hands on the synth, my bass, my guitar. Watching for cues from Helen, marching across the front of the stage on the rare occasion I wasn’t bound by an instrument. Commanding the room, playing the crowd like an orchestra - _like a puppet master,_ the phrase bouncing around my skull unbidden.

During the droning, extended second half of our last song before the encore, I allowed my conscious, analytical mind to break through, permitting myself to view the performance from a distance. To do so before would have been too risky, the danger of dissociating and dropping the ball too great to fully appreciate where I was and the gravity of what we were doing. I was able to focus enough to let the sample fade out, as Helen walked off a few seconds before me, the lights behind us pulsating and beaming a violent shade of purple that fanned across the heads of the crowd. I pulled the monitors from my ear for a second, holding two fingers up to Helen and nodding - two songs remaining, and on the very last, time to pull out the big guns.

The big guns were Helen’s enormous fuzz guitar tone, and our new drummer Ethan’s thunderous stop-start fills. I triggered a sample and clutched at the mic as thought it was a lifeline, sinking to my knees as I sang ferociously - for a few moments the cathartic noise filled my ears, a cleansing burst of static and distortion, and the crowd surged forward, the kind of energy we had started to receive in smaller clubs, but was now replicated three-fold at the very least, judging by the size of the room. I straightened up in a flash, feeling messianic as a cascade of warm synths washed across the monitors, the key changing, the song soaring. Yes, _this_ was how it was meant to feel. The hallowed fever dream, the coke rush minus the coke.

And then everything dropped - sound, light, breath. Helen leaped onto me in glee, nearly knocking the remaining air from my lungs, and a rosy spotlight bathed us as we thanked the crowd. I seized upon the mental images of as many faces as I could, wondering in awe at the enthusiasm they held for my music, the sort that I had held in my own teenage bedroom in Bristol a decade ago.

Dean was practically in tears, he was so thrilled, and we laughed and hugged and teased him, gladly accepting the bottle of champagne wielded by the NME journalist who had been trying to capture our sweat-streaked faces on her little SLR camera. I didn’t mind or care how the photos turned out, the adrenaline was too powerful. It took a couple of minutes to be calmed down enough to sit and answer the questions she had, and I was so fiercely hyperactive that by the third one, I had grabbed the dictaphone from her, gabbling into it about the autumn tour, the summer festivals, joking-but-not-joking about the brand partnerships we coveted for new clothes. Helen had wound down more quickly, and though amused by my chattering, was happily diverted by the appearance of Leon after a few minutes. The journalist visibly panicked at the thought of losing half her brief to the attentions of a skinny Burberry model, but seemed to reconcile herself with the matter, finding just one final comment that happened to be directed at me.

‘Joanna, you’ve attracted some appreciation from a few famous faces. Steve Lamacq has been spinning the most recent single on Radio Six, and has been a vocal supporter, that must have been especially encouraging at the early stages of your career.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I burbled, ‘getting recognition from so-called tastemakers is enormously helpful, we’re quite indebted to a few people from the BBC… my mum loves it of course, texts me whenever she hears, which is getting to be every day now…’

‘And I’ve glimpsed some famous fans here too tonight-’

‘Oh, really? Who?’ I pressed her excitedly.

‘Well, Jarvis Cocker was just singing your praises to me, and Matty Healy is having a smoke backstage, absolutely blown away by the show.’ She seemed to watch my expression keenly, pausing strategically here, and I felt myself go cold all over.

‘Really. Well.’ _Jarvis Cocker too, you idiot_ , a little buzzing, nagging voice scolded me internally, but all I could think about was nasty clickbait, assumptions being made. There was no me-and-Matty, it _wasn’t that kind of thing_. ‘That’s… amazing, yeah.’

The journalist’s eyebrows raised incredulously, and I couldn’t act for shit. My rambling, excitable answers had turned monotone and abrupt, and she sensed there wasn’t much left to be squeezed out of me. I felt distinctly like a lemon that had been juiced, exhausted suddenly, dried up of energy. I don’t remember how I shook her off, or whether it was done with any decorum whatsoever - I was too intent on finding him. The corridors backstage had filled up - when on earth had all these people turned up? I didn’t remember putting them on any guest list. I wondered if Dean had had a hand in it.

Two left turns, one right, and I was outside, the air musty with sweat and cigarette smoke and the raucous conversation of at least fifty people crammed into the cordoned area beside the railway arch. I spotted Helen with ease, her arm linked coyly with Leon’s… that lanky, spidery boy, obscuring the figure that leaned so casually against the yellow bricks as he conversed with them. Sporting the same pea-green jacket as the night we met. Crowned with the fluffy halo of curls.

Matty pulled a silly, excitable face when he saw me, and held out an arm, squeezing me in a tight hug and pressing a surreptitious kiss on my cheek. Too dazed to protest, my gaze flashed around the people nearest, desperately hoping nobody had clocked us. ‘Joanna! That was fucking insane, honestly…’

I smiled weakly, but it felt disingenuous. ‘Thanks. I didn’t know you’d be here.’

‘Oh. I was on the list,’ his arm dropped to his side awkwardly. ‘I thought maybe you’d just forgotten to tell me, or something, I don’t know.’ The _or something_ was enunciated oddly. ‘They announced this on the radio, yesterday. I assumed it was some sort of flash announcement, since I had no idea.’

I laughed airily, trying to brush it off. ‘Did you hear anything you recognised?’

‘Only one or two songs. I guess I’ve only heard your newest material though, haven’t I? No violin tonight, no Moog…’

‘No, well. There was a lot riding on this, I wanted the tried and tested set.’

‘I didn’t realise you felt the nerves so much,’ he wondered aloud.

‘Of course I do,’ I snapped, feeling self-control slip from my grasp. ‘I’m not used to this. I’m still trying to get around the fact that there was a four-figure audience watching my every move, that had paid almost twenty quid each, with the expectation that I make it worth their while.’ The air between us cooled rapidly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Helen edging away to give us privacy, dragging Leon with her.

‘That’s understandable,’ he replied, unnervingly calm, his expression unreadable as he took a sharp drag of his cigarette. ‘It might be the first time, but you’ll have plenty more firsts. Smoke?’

‘No thanks,’ I replied haltingly. 

‘Fine.’ Matty threw the rest of his cigarette to the ground forcefully. ‘I’m going for a piss, I’ll see you inside, alright?’ Without waiting for my answer or acknowledgement, he turned and walked back inside the venue without a backwards glance. Part of me wanted to call after him, fling my arms around his neck and tell him how proud I was that he liked it, but there was a quiet, inexplicable anger inside me that kept my feet firmly planted at the back of the smoking area.

‘That was fucking weird Jo,’ Helen whispered crossly from behind me, having apparently eavesdropped on our painfully limited conversation. ‘I thought you’d be delighted to see him!’ Of course - Helen had put him on our guestlist. It seemed so obvious suddenly.

‘Yeah, that’s fucking cool, Matty Healy at your show…’ drawled Leon, and Helen elbowed him aggressively. ‘Ouch.’

‘What will people say?’ I hissed, whirling to face them. ‘Everyone and their mum saw him here tonight. Do you really want to get pigeonholed as his charity case?’

‘I don’t know where this is coming from,’ she grasped my wrist as if scolding me. ‘Jo, I know that’s not it, really. We’re doing well enough as it is. What’s your problem with him?’

‘He doesn’t know what the hell he wants, Helen. One minute we’re getting drunk and playing pool like best mates. Then we mess about and fuck, and alright, it’s a laugh. But then he shows up tonight, being ‘supportive’,’ I framed the word in air quotes disparagingly. ‘Which is just him playing a role. He’s not being realistic. He’s forgetting he’ll go off on tour again soon and like it or not, things will be different.’

‘So you’re friends with benefits?’ Leon wondered aloud.

Helen and I both turned to him with murderous expressions, speaking in chorus. ‘Shut the fuck up, Leon!’ She nibbled at her lip, looking guilty. ‘Shit, I told him he could crash at ours tonight. Do you want me to go and find him, tell him it’s not a good idea?’

‘No! For god’s sake, don’t. That’s only going to make it awkward.’

But nothing would save the rest of the night from being awkward. The remnants of the crowd still milled around without any indication of clearing out, and although my irritation at Matty’s presence was still there, there was a small, growing embarrassment too. This was supposed to be a night that I felt the glow of my _own_ triumph, not one punctuated with emotion directed towards someone else.

Still, I mused, just because we were the main attraction didn’t mean we had to be the last to leave. I told Helen I was going to pack up the stuff we had left lying around the green room, and cautiously made my way backstage again, finding our area blessedly untouched and undisturbed still. Gathering up bits of makeup that I couldn’t be sure belonged to either Helen or I, and the clothes discarded in the trying-on phase, I shoved everything haphazardly into one of the suitcases, noticing for the first time the incessant ringing in my ears now that pure quiet surrounded me.

The echoes from the corridors and smoking area became louder for a second, as the door opened and closed behind me. I knew who it would be.

‘Jo. What’s up?’

I turned to face Matty wearily, pushing my hair back from my face. ‘Nothing. Just… packing up before I call a car. Dean will arrange for the gear to be dropped off at the practice space… I won’t need this stuff at home…’

‘No, I mean what’s going on with you? I can tell, you know,’ he said testily, standing square in front of me with his hands thrust into his pockets, his lovely face distorted by a frown, the first real one I’d seen on him. ‘Talk to me properly, Jo. Don’t clam up on me. It’s unproductive.’

‘Fine,’ I shot back, straightening up so I was level with him. ‘I don’t know why you came tonight, alright? I don’t know _why_.’

‘I have to have an excuse?’ I pressed my lips together, trying to form a sentence that would neatly encapsulate my discomfort at his being there, but the comedown from the show wasn’t helping, and my brain was failing me. ‘Well, do I?’ He shook his head, exasperated at my silence. ‘Fuck me… this is ridiculous. I’ll call that car. See you outside.’

He sidestepped Helen on his way out, and she rushed over, wearing a look of alarm. ‘He looks pissed. Is he pissed? Joanna?’

‘I think so,’ I redirected my attention towards packing up, painfully aware of my own facial expression, trying to make it blank.

‘God, you two are an odd couple if I ever saw one.’ She paused, watching me pick the bananas out of the rider fruit bowl, and spoke guardedly. 

‘I don’t… _fuck_. I don’t know what we agreed upon.’

Helen burst out laughing, and I broke my poker face to glare at her. ‘Better make up your mind. And do it quick if you want anything from him before he leaves for a month.’

I shuddered at the way she phrased it. Was that what we’d become, so quickly? It sounded almost transactional, cheap. Like a quick fuck. Nothing about fucking him had been quick though… Matty rolled around in bed with me for hours. Matty lay on top of me on the sofa. Matty cooked me bacon and eggs. And as much as I’d _told_ him on the phone that I was afraid bedding each other would wreck our friendship, what had we only gone and done? And he had blithely assured me nothing would change. I resented him for convincing me. What a fool I’d been, a classic, grade A fool.

Helen helped me carry the case to the kerb outside, where the car was waiting. Matty was glued to his phone and already sitting in the front seat beside the driver, leaving the back seats to Helen and I, and I knew him well enough now to grasp that this was intentional. ‘Petty,’ I muttered under my breath, heaving the case into the boot and sliding across the backseat.

‘Okay, Amesbury Avenue please,’ Helen tapped the seat in front. Matty crossed one leg over the other, twisting a stray curl of hair by his forehead around his finger, giving off an strange aura of calm that was betrayed only by his fidgeting. I stared intently into the back of his head, willing him to turn around even whilst I burned with indignation.

The car journey might have been excruciating, if it was several hours earlier and I had the energy to pay attention to the frosty atmosphere, but it was almost two in the morning, and I was too drained. I let my gaze settle in the rear view mirror; his eyes darted up every now and then, fixing on mine before flickering down again, unreadable. Helen had the aux lead, and seemed to be playing the most depressing Radiohead songs she could find, apropos of my own mood. The gut-wrenching strains of ‘Knives Out’ came on just as we crossed from Brixton Hill to Streatham High Road, and she glanced apologetically at me, but the car was still silent until the driver asked where he should pull up.

‘Just before the mini roundabout… yeah, perfect. Thanks,’ Helen guided, snapping the music off. The flat was cool, the heating off. I made a beeline for the kitchen to pour the biggest glass of water I could, and when I emerged, Matty had planted himself on the sofa, his jacket already slung over the arm. I stood at the edge of the room and leaned against the wall, in a self-piteous state as I thought about the things that sofa had seen us do.

‘I’m going to get changed,’ I mumbled. ‘Do you want-’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll sleep here,’ he interrupted me flatly.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Actually… I was asking if you want to borrow something. Sweater, pants. But never mind.’

He flicked his lighter a few times, watching the sparks fly, apparently considering my offer. ‘Yeah, okay. Do you have tracksuit bottoms?’

‘Sure.’ Matty’s legs were an inch or two longer than mine, but I knew I had a pair that would fit, and rifled through my drawers until I found them. ‘Cute…’ he smirked grudgingly, smoothing down the name label inside the waistband: _Joanna Lucas._ ‘How did I not know your surname?’

‘Oh, god. My mum insisted on labelling everything when I went to uni.’ I cracked a small smile, and for a moment I thought he might return it. But he kept his eyes trained on his hands, and conversation was not forthcoming. ‘Alright, well. Sleep well.’

He nodded, still clutching the tracksuit awkwardly, and I drifted into my room, shutting the door firmly after me. I felt sick, but it would be humiliating to chuck up in the toilet. Breathe, Jo, come on… the sickly feeling was lodged in my diaphragm. This dynamic was awful, truly, but with all my energy spent, I crashed out on top of the duvet, not even bothering to get under the covers. 

When I woke the next morning, Matty was already gone, the bottoms folded neatly on top of the blanket he had wrapped around himself during the night. I lifted them, half hoping for a note, but there was none, only his warm natural scent - something like almonds, the similarity so obvious now. I knew there would be no pancakes.

***

_hey, i didn’t get to wish you good luck for tour. have a safe journey x_

_thanks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART ONE.


	8. Governors Ball.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's festival season - namely, Gov Ball. All the best laid plans go awry, and even the start of a transatlantic tour can't distract Joanna from her complicated feelings for Matty.

_(Preoccupations - Silhouettes)_

_(Martin Dupont - Inside Out)_

_Somebody Else_

**PART TWO.**

_May._

I'd always loved long-haul flights, even the crappy food in economy, but most of all I loved the concept of such enormous distance, being catapulted slowly across continents, squinting at the stratosphere and knowing that I was skimming the edge of earth. Helen snorted with amusement as I gawped at the sunset over the Atlantic, snapping a couple of photos for posterity on her new hobby camera, a ridiculously expensive Leica that was worth about two months' rent.

'Will you stop that and just _look_?' I nudged her knee with mine. 'I think I see Nova Scotia.'

'Mm, gorgeous. We've got about an hour 'til we land.'

'I saw a documentary about it when I was fourteen that made it look heavenly. I wonder if there's any convincing Dean to let us cross into Canada...'

She ploughed on, ignoring my ambitions to see forests and lakes and bears. 'He's set us up in the most insane hotel on the Lower East side. I am definitely getting a swim in the pool before we head to the festival.'

'I didn't pack a bikini,' I sighed distractedly.

'Hardly your priority, mate. What you should be asking yourself is, what the hell will I wear onstage at Gov Ball... because once again, I am sorted, but you need a showstopper item.'

'Do you reckon we'll be able to catch Rolling Blackouts? I've had the worst luck with their sets, they always clash with someone massive.'

'I'm optimistic,' Helen shrugged, burying her nose in a book again.

Governors Ball in New York would kick off our East Coast tour, a festival I had been longing to play since I realised my music could make money and maybe even take me places. Helen was breezily confident, as ever, but I was bricking it, despite the enthusiastic reactions to last month's show at Heaven. Restricting live dates at home, as Dean had advised, was paying off. Demand for us was becoming fiercer, and the single was attaining surprising streaming numbers. The sheer force of momentum was surreal, and I didn't feel entirely in control; it was starting to feel rather like sitting on a rollercoaster after being strapped in, helpless to do anything but cling on and thrive off the adrenaline as you were thrown about.

The lineup was glorious, dozens of bands I'd have given anything to play alongside only a year ago, but my nerves were exacerbated by one large, numerical name at the top of the poster. And just typical, playing the same day as us, later in the evening. I couldn't see how it would be possible to avoid Matty, but his curt reply to my message the morning after the show spoke for itself; there was nothing left to say.

I still wasn't sure how I felt about this. I cursed myself for not being able to verbalise the tangled knot in my head, which I could barely tease apart myself, let alone express succinctly to someone else. Every time I tried to imagine a hypothetical situation where we crossed paths, I drew a blank - it was impossible to know how he would react, since his own feelings were a mystery to me. I hadn't exactly moped, but I'd been jittery over the last few weeks, and found it hard to write. Helen had given up after a couple of pep talks, encouraging me to visit my parents in Bristol.

I needed the break away from London, it turned out, and it was grounding - touching, even - to sleep in my teenage bedroom again, and to join my dad on a drive to the coast, sitting in the car eating chips and watching the seagulls dive-bomb people with ice-creams, laughing along to Radio Four comedy, dragging my mum to the pub for a shandy ('lots of lemonade, mind, and just a drop of bitter, Joanna'). They were proud of me, but as far as they were concerned, I would always be the twenty-year-old tearing her hair out over her dissertation and living off cream crackers.

I didn't tell my mum about Matty, and thankfully she didn't follow the minutiae of indie paps and gossip, but she sensed I was emotionally exhausted, without asking questions.

'I know it's all a whirlwind for you up there, but do remember love, to make sure you trust people that have your best interests at heart,' she said carefully one evening, lowering the volume slightly on the ten o'clock news.

'I do, mum.'

'Well then. I trust you.' And up the volume went again, and nothing more significant was said.

When the plane hit turbulence on the way into JFK, I squeezed Helen's hand shamelessly. It was times like these I got morbid, imagining headlines - _Rising Stars Amongst 300 Dead - Engine Failure Over The Hudson._ Matty's last text to me, cold and clipped. He'd regret that. No, that was really ghoulish - I pressed my fists against my eyes until they stung, static dancing across my vision. The plane landed at last, with a sickening judder, and phones started up, vibrating and ringing with appointments and long-awaited contact.

Dean turned around from the seat in front, his round face beaming. 'Rough on the way in, I know, but you can look forward to the hotel... I've booked rooms at Public, cheaper than stuffy old-fashioned places like the Langham, and much more to your taste I think.'

He was right, and he really did know our taste. The hotel's exterior was draped end to end in luscious greenery that could be spotted from several blocks away. The lobby entrance was a hushed, tranquil hallway; Dean checked us all in whilst Helen and I pressed our noses against the glass door through to the restaurant, where servers dressed exclusively in black tactfully maneuvered their way around tables that were burnished to a high gloss.

The rooms were exquisite - serene, block cream upholstery, smooth pine furnishings and a view of the Park. Helen and I even had separate rooms, a rarity as the rest of the tour would be spent sharing motel double beds. I set my case down on the thick pile of the carpet, breathing in the warm, woody scent. This was definitely a place crafted for sensory experiences; I hunted around the suite in search of a room spray, and discovered the three-quarters-full bottle of Margiela fragrance, dousing my clothes and the lining of my case in it with childish glee, just so that I could smell faintly of it all tour.

I changed into red cords and a soft, old Shellac t-shirt. Helen's room was the other side of the stairs, almost identical to mine but mirrored, overlooking the street. I drummed my fingers on the door. 'You getting changed?'

'Yeah, come in,' she called, 'it's on the latch.' I pushed it open to see her doing up her belt on a pair of leather shorts, frowning at her reflection in the mirror as she inspected her tights for ladders.

'Kinky. I thought you'd have saved those for tomorrow.'

'Yeah, well. Got to live up to the environment, haven't I? And I've got something else set aside for our thirty minutes of fame. What are you going for, Krist Novoselic?'

I swatted the back of her head. 'Comfort. I'm starved, I think I saw a bagel shop on this block.'

Helen brushed her hair out and we pocketed our phones, keys and wads of dollars, falling into the lift and revelling over the realisation of our West Country teen dreams. Acting nonchalant in London was easy now, but this... this was not normal, everyday life. There was no risk of taking _this_ for granted.

As we passed through the lobby, a small group stood at the check-in desks, expensive-looking luggage in tow, and I side-eyed them as we walked past. Tall men. One of them I recognised, with a lurch of nausea. This man had been sat across from Matty at the awards. Adam? Speaking to the concierge. The automatic doors slid open before Helen and I reached them, letting another man through. My throat closed up, and I was acutely aware of my stride, suddenly uncomfortably conscious of my arms and shoving my hands in my pockets to compensate. But this one was too tall, and I was feeling more and more ill at ease.

Helen was oblivious to my anxiety until we stepped out onto the street, and then her words had the opposite effect to what she intended. 'Don't turn around,' she muttered quickly. I twisted my neck, and - _there_. We clocked each other. Even at twenty paces, it was enough to make Matty stall, blinking at me, dumbfounded. Helen frogmarched me away, swearing under her breath.

'Of all the hotels,' I seethed once we were halfway down the block, 'of all the sodding, _fucking_ hotels in New York...'

'Good taste, I guess,' Helen grimaced. 'You weren't going to be able to avoid Matty anyway. We play tomorrow, so do they.'

'Regardless, I didn't expect to bump into him on our way down to breakfast! You _have_ to agree, this is the absolute worst luck.'

She shook her head. 'You know what you need to do?'

'What?' I could hear the self-pity in my own voice, still hoping for a magic answer or perfect solution.

'Distract yourself with someone else. Losing your head over Matty will do you no good.' We reached the bagel shop, and I was relieved to find it empty apart from the red-faced man behind the counter. 'Because, if I'm being honest... that man has a lot going on, some weird history. If a casual thing with him was so easy to mess up, well. You can do a lot better.'

This surprised me, and seemed unexpected from Helen, given how she had spoken about Matty months before. 'Do better? I thought you liked him.'

'Yeah, well... that was before things got weird. I'm telling you, Jo. Being hung up on him is like chasing a ghost. You do _not_ need a codependent hookup friendship with an ex-junkie who hits you up whenever he's back from being on the road. Okay? Go and jump one of the VIPs at the festival.'

'That's... strong.' It felt odd defending him to Helen of all people, but her words shocked me. 'You make him sound like a hopeless case. He's not, you know.'

'Alright, not as a person. But he's not a viable option for _you_ any more. I mean, what do you stand to gain?'

I was struck with the mental image of being stretched out on his sofa, our limbs entangled, basking in a glow of happiness. But the chances of that happening again had shrunk drastically.

We coughed up for salt beef bagels with a healthy dollop of mustard, and Helen humoured me when I insisted we carry on walking a wider circuit around the blocks near the Park, just to ensure they'd be gone when we got back. Regardless of the internal wrestling match between my nostalgic pining for Matty and anger at the effect a glance on the street had, it was impossible not to be enchanted by the city, the infernal racket of noise that enveloped us and the novelties down each side street, which reminded me surprisingly of London. I thought the towers at Fenchurch Street were tall, that Piccadilly and Green Park were bright - but they were easily dwarfed and outshone by Manhattan.

***

The festival's island setting meant it felt slightly cut off, even elevated, from the dusty, chaotic streets. We had been allocated a trailer behind the main stage, which came complete with a magnificent spread of food, but I disliked being so close to the monitors, which allowed me to hear the frenetic performances of other acts and drove my nerves up.

I had brought a carry-all with stage clothes, and asked Ben to leave a guitar in the trailer, to help pass the time. We were almost indecently early, mostly out of the fear of forgetting anything; the new crew Dean had recruited seemed reliable enough, and I'd already shared pints with them at the airport bar, but start-of-tour jitters were hitting hard. I pulled a plastic cup free of the stack on the folding table, and broke the seal on a bottle of vodka, slugging a good double shot in before some lemonade, and downing it in five minutes, picking over the junk food laid out and skimming over the fruit.

'I'd say you're a bit early to start that, but I think you might actually have the right idea,' Ethan commented brightly, and I turned to see him swinging on the trailer's flimsy doorway. I was grateful to see him, since he had joined us a day late, and I could at least relax knowing that all the right people were on the ground. 'A mate of mine is here with some of his friends from NYU, actors... got guest passes through their agents I guess. We're at the backstage bar, want to come down?'

'Actors? Oh, I don't know,' I dithered, 'I'm not sure I have the energy to sustain a conversation with theatre kids...'

'These aren't theatre kids, Jo, trust me. Come on, don't shut yourself away. We haven't hung out all together in ages.'

'Alright,' I grudgingly agreed, pouring myself another strong drink before following him through the winding gangway between trailers until we reached an enormous enclosure. It was already heaving, most people more interested in mingling and being photographed in the same glamorous environs than catching the smaller acts at the bottom of the festival bill. But who was I to talk? I was right there too, rather than loitering about the fringes of early sets and studiously taking notes.

I let Ethan drag me around for a while, feeling uncharacteristically shy amongst a sea of faces that looked vaguely familiar. Back home, I had breezed through the company of some of my heroes, feeling nothing but satisfaction at being in the same realm as them, but being on unfamiliar turf and confronted by faces from other industries - actors, models, famous-for-unclear-reasons - I felt like the intimidated imposter in Notting Hill, except on a far grander scale. I badly wanted to drink more, for liquid courage, but I dreaded the condition I would have to perform in then.

'I've seen your face before,' an American voice spoke somewhere to the side of me, turning my attention away from the small group Ethan had amassed around him. I was planted on the edge of a bench they were all sitting on, fidgeting restlessly with the tassel of one of the cushions that had been artfully scattered around the seating areas, more interested in the ice slowly melting in my empty cup than the conversation. And the voice was not drawling or grating, but a smooth, Brooklyn lilt. I turned to face the source slowly.

 _I haven't seen yours_ was what I wanted to respond, careless and confident. But in fact, I had, and I felt a flicker of thankfulness that I was able to maintain an outwardly casual air.

'There's a poster on the fencing outside, and I thought, _I saw her perform once_... months ago. It's cool you're playing this weekend.'

'Tonight, actually,' I blinked, taking in the prettiness of the man as he gazed down at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. 'Months? Where was that, then?'

'Some place in London. Hackney, I think. You were electric.'

I blushed. 'I saw your film once. Months ago. You were alright.'

'You're teasing,' his arm dropped, a smile playing on his face. 'Want a drink? I'm buying.'

He had dark eyes and dark, curly hair like Matty's, and I wondered if I was doomed to have a type now. I let him buy me a gin and tonic, but just a single, and when he questioned my restraint, I reminded him I was performing in a matter of hours.

'You want something else to get wired?'

I didn't shut him down. I watched him cut the white lines in the toilet cubicle, and hoover up two himself. I took the third, feeling unsteady as I held the rolled dollar bill between my fingers, but a surprising sense of relief flooded through me in the moment it touched the surface. _Five years_ , I thought, _five years ago you did this last._ I wondered if it would have a different effect on me now, since I felt like an entirely different person to that nineteen-year-old. We stumbled outside, and suddenly I didn't want to slump on a cushion, averting my eyes from the glances of passers-by. I met them boldly, brimming with confidence, and when the actor nibbled tentatively at my neck, I laughed coyly, grasping at the material of his shirt and enjoying feeling the warm, slender body of a man beneath my hands again. I let him kiss me right there at the bar, well past caring about onlookers or my own composure.

Helen pulled me away good-naturedly a couple of hours later, although she whispered in my ear that I had better be sure I could hit the right notes on coke. She wasn't above dabbling herself, I knew that, so I felt no judgement on her part. But judgement came from the other end of the bar, and I met it with a chemically-induced defiance.

Matty was dressed up already, his immaculate pinstripe suit buttoned all the way, although the curls were overgrown and half-tamed. He appeared to be talking about something entirely unrelated, deep in conversation with someone else, but glowering unmistakeably at me.

'It's time, Jo, come on,' Helen muttered, linking her arm in mine. 'You followed my advice, you've nabbed a _very_ nice alternative. Now ignore him.'

'I am... I am.'

'Sure.' Her eyebrows were raised, but she changed the subject breezily. 'I've been getting to know Dev Hynes, while you've been gone. He promised me he'll be side of stage for our set, and we could do with a few stateside mates, if I'm honest...'

I changed hurriedly in the cabin, pulling on the seventies velvet shorts I had picked up on our excursion the day before and a white jumper, trying desperately to keep my hand steady as I pulled my hair up, twisting it and tying it carelessly. 'How many people are at the main stage, do you know?'

'No. And I don't want to.' Helen shuddered, zipping up her boots again, looking radiant as ever in head-to-toe purple. 'Better if we don't think about that and just give them a hell of a show.'

Dean popped his head around the door, a pen stuck behind his ear and a slightly crazed look in his eye. 'Ten minutes, guys.'

I swore. 'Fuck, Helen. I shouldn't have done that line.'

'If anyone can handle it, you can.'

'No, I mean it was stupid. I should have just... I don't know, had a Pro Plus or something.'

'You'd only be more jittery. Just because it's a class A doesn't mean you've lowered your moral standards.' She took my face in her hands. 'Babe. You're so fucking cool, alright?'

'You're smudging my makeup,' I lurched away from her, but I grinned. 'Fine. So are you.'

We checked our monitors and found Ethan drifting on the gangway, watching other people tune up our instruments. It felt odd, remembering how I'd done it all myself less than a year ago - tuning up, taping the setlist down, hauling cables back and forth. I hoped I wouldn't get used to it too quickly.

The stage manager counted us down, and the background music died out. A deep roar met us as we walked on, and I was so, so glad I hadn't brought sunglasses. The setting sun blinded and prevented me from properly registering the sheer size of the heaving crowd, although the noise and energy was enough to tell me it was bigger than anything we'd ever had before.

We were well-rehearsed, better even since playing Heaven - the strange booming sound of the festival stage didn't deter me, and the old, pared back instruments I'd been self-conscious of carting out amongst the pristine gear I'd seen in the hands of bigger acts suddenly felt like friends in my hands. Coke or no coke, I knew I sounded good, and I let myself relax into the performance. 

And then I picked up my acoustic guitar, and everything fell apart.

It wasn't _me_ \- I could take solace in that, unable to blame myself for a technical mistake. But twenty seconds in, the monitor wasn't giving me any of the guitar, and then everything flickered out - I missed a bar, Helen shot me a quizzical look that gradually gave way to alarm, and I shook my head, cutting the whole song. When I tried to explain it away jokingly to the crowd, I heard only the faintest whisper of my voice, coming from entirely the wrong direction, and marched offstage, clutching the guitar and furiously suppressing a strong urge to cry. Wordlessly, I handed it to the tech, and made cutting motions towards the sound engineer - there was nothing coming from the in-ear, it just gave in, I could hear nothing, do nothing - Dean's hand on my shoulder, soothing words that weren't working at all, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.

'Hey, hey - give the guitar to me, I know this one well enough.' The hand on my shoulder lifted as a different one squeezed my forearm, a familiar touch. 'It's still coming out the front. I'll play,' Matty's voice was abrupt, businesslike. 'Joanna? Is that alright?'

'Yes,' I breathed, hoping desperately that I could concentrate enough to keep perfect pitch.

When he walked out with me, the acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, it occurred to me that he must have been watching the whole time, from the side. Helen's eyebrows flew up, but she made no gesture towards me. A shriek went up from the crowd as they clocked Matty, and he was gracious enough to hover behind me, saving any theatrics for later in the night during his own slot. I lifted the mic from its stand, cradling it in my hand to concentrate on my pitch, but also to avoid staring directly out at the swell of people, most of whom were already there just to see him later, I realised. I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. I introduced him, light-heartedly thanking him for lending a hand.

And he was right, of course: he knew this one. It was one of the songs we had worked on the night we met, poring over the EQ for an hour, repeating the progression over and over again until I thought he must have been sick of it. 'Four bar intro,' I mouthed, holding four fingers up, and he nodded. I faced him as he played, watching, counting. He watched me too, intent but unreadable as I began to sing. Ethan fired up the elastic beats from the sampler, Helen picked up the bass, and we got through it, just.

At the end, I let the mic fall from my lips, and stood watching Matty as he chimed the last couple of bars, staring down at his feet. The sound dropped, the cheer went up again, and as he lifted the guitar off his shoulder, I went to embrace him, simply because it seemed like a natural thing to do.

'Thank you,' I whispered, meaning it.

'Don't,' he replied stiffly, in a detached undertone. I drew back in shock, but he wasn't looking at me, already waving casually to the masses and striding offstage. If the sound problems had thrown me, then this was ten times more disorientating, but the urgency to the set returned - we had ten minutes remaining, and three songs.

Tightening my ponytail and spinning around to the others, I forced a winning smile back onto my face. 'Cut the next, last two only,' I motioned to them as they nodded in understanding. I was no longer upset, but exasperated, confused and fired up, determined to make sure everyone standing drunkenly in the evening sun would remember our closing rejoinder, that it was me who lit up the stage first.

***

'What the _fuck_ happened there?' Helen snapped, her eyes flashing at the tech, who wilted under her glare.

'Hey, hey... it turned out just fine in the end, no harm done,' Dean tried to pacify her.

'Yeah, only thanks to Mr Headliner. No prizes for guessing who the write-ups will focus on.'

'I'll make sure they won't...'

'He didn't have to help,' I stated irritably, 'but he did.'

'You would have been fine. Skip a song maybe, switch to keys.'

Privately, I wasn't so sure I _would_ have been so fine - I had gone from the verge of a panic attack to feeling relatively composed - but I was in no mood to engage in a battle of hypotheticals with Helen. We had encamped ourselves in the cabin again, winding down from the show and pouring ourselves some well-deserved strong drinks at last, but it wasn't quite the victory lap I'd been anticipating. Ethan had disappeared already, and I didn't much worry where to, as long as he was on the bus and ready to leave the next day.

A knock rang out on the thin, hard plastic of the door, and the actor's face appeared around it. 'Good time?'

'Could always be a worse one,' I conceded tiredly, giving him a small smile.

'Need to come up?'

'Not any more, no, but thanks. I can down as many gin and tonics as I want now,' I tilted a full cup in his direction as he stepped gingerly inside. 'Did you catch the set?'

'Just the last song, I'm afraid. Incredible, just as I remembered.' He threw a hand in the air to indicate his awe, but his eyes twinkled provocatively. 'Gonna make the most of your last night in New York then?'

'Helen?' I deferred, trying to diffuse his flirtation.

She shrugged. 'Let's get fucked up then.'

It was extremely off-putting to hear Matty's voice, reflected but muffled, calling encouragingly to the crowd and singing with all his signature performativity, whilst I was being pushed up against a trailer by the actor, trying to absorb myself in the things he was doing with his hands. I felt like a randy teenager again, not least because I had already indulged in bad habits from my teens; he had an erection, I could tell, but I didn't want to go down on him, especially not behind a trailer, so I brought him off in my hand instead, absorbing his panting with my kisses and taking care not to get any of it on my new shorts. The music died down at last, as the night's performances were over and the curfew began.

'I have a place in Bed-Stuy,' the actor murmured conspiratorially, 'probably not as nice as your hotel but... will you come back with me?'

'Not tonight,' I said gently, resting a hand on his chest. 'But I had fun.'

'Aw, why not?' he whined, and I could feel myself recoil. _There it is,_ I thought, _the moment the spoilt child jumps out_.

'Because I don't like casual sex.'

To my relief, he took this as a passable answer, and obediently followed me out from behind the trailer, as I wandered towards the noise of the bar again, hoping I might find Helen so that we could start to make our way back. The enclosure was abuzz with people, despite the emptiness of the festival site itself; I suspected it would take a while for security to get everyone on their way.

Matty was laughing hysterically at something someone had said, his suit jacket gone and his yellow shirt dark with sweat from the show. I felt foolish for even looking in his direction, even though he was impossible to miss - a loud entertainer, relishing the centre of attention now, which was funny, because in other social situations in London he had been so humble, happy to tread along the edges of a room, seemingly surprised when people were drawn to him. I had wondered if there might be an opportunity to pull him aside, to express gratitude for what he had done, but now I saw that would never be possible. His eyes had flickered in my direction, clocking both me and my rather tipsy companion, but he refused to register me properly. This message was as loud and clear as his last one - there was nothing to say.


	9. Manhattan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon returning to the hotel, Matty seeks Joanna out, to try to smooth things over... with mixed results.

_(Interpol - Hands Away)_

_Me_

_(Marlon Williams - Can I Call You)_

It was late, extremely late when Helen, Dean, Ethan and I returned to the hotel, and I was grateful for the zen quality of the place, especially as I was struggling to walk in an entirely straight line. Dean and Ethan went straight to the bar for a nightcap, whilst Helen and I pressed the button for the lift.

'You know, you coped really well in the end,' Helen said matter-of-factly, studying her reflection in the mirrored elevator door and wiping off the mascara that has fallen below her lashes. 'I thought we were absolutely done for at one point.'

'Let it never be repeated,' I muttered darkly. 'I am personally checking my monitors myself every night of this tour.'

She gave me a tight hug before we parted to go to our rooms, a squeeze that told me everything I needed to know. As unpleasant as the glitch had been, I hadn't really been alone up there - regardless of whether an apparition from the past appeared. Worst case scenario, there would have been a brief interlude, audiences understood. Technical issues happened all the time. My blind panic was induced mainly by the pressure I had imposed upon myself, and the unsettled state of my mind.

I wandered into the bathroom, turning on the hot tap and letting the tub fill up as I undressed listlessly, peeling off my tights and carefully hanging my stage clothes up in the cavernous wardrobe. Testing the water with my hand, I turned the tap off again and pulled my hair up into a bun to stop it from falling into the water. A knock sounded at the door, three sharp raps. 'For god's sake,' I sighed under my breath, tiptoeing back into the room and wrapping myself in one of the luxuriously thick dressing gowns that I'd found hanging beside the ironing board and piles of spare towels the hotel had provided.

I opened the door to find Matty leaning against the wall and looking morose, his crisp yellow shirt now creased and wrinkled, his patterned tie askew. 'Are you kidding me? Really?'

'I have your scarf,' he said weakly, holding it aloft. It was the one I wrapped around him in Granary Square.

'Right. Thanks.' _Useless in this climate_ , I thought to myself, but I took it anyway, ignoring the pang as my hand brushed against his, and stared at him expectantly.

'I need to talk to you,' he insisted, his voice rough and pleading. 'Please, Jo. Can I come in?'

I narrowed my eyes, making a pretence of considering his question so that I didn't appear too easily swayed. 'Fine.'

He followed me into the room, pausing in the middle of the carpet as I leaned against the edge of the small sofa. He glanced down at his shoes, perhaps wondering if they would mark the cream carpet, but we both knew that if he removed them, it would signal an intent to stay.

'Go on then,' I nodded, and he kicked them off against the wall. I wasn't sure what sort of impression I was trying to exude - irritable that he had bothered me? Dismissive even? No, I couldn't fake that even at the best of times, let alone exhausted at two in the morning after a festival. 'Alright. What did you need to talk about?'

'I'm sorry if I overstepped, coming onstage with you today,' he edged towards the bed, sitting on the end of it innocuously. 'I was right there at the side, I just... couldn't watch you panic. So I thought, you know, since there was something I could do...'

'You didn't overstep,' I sighed, letting my tone become warmer. 'It was weird, I don't know why you followed me around. But I'm glad you did, in the end.'

'Okay. Good.' He rubbed at his eyes as he spoke. 'Jo, this is all really fucking confusing. It doesn't feel right, tiptoeing around, side-eyeing each other. I want things to go back to normal. Why aren't things normal anymore?'

I fiddled awkwardly with the end of the dressing-gown belt, trying to resist the urge to shrug, which I knew would be an insensitive response.

'Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be grilling you like this. I'm drunk.' Matty was becoming frustrated with himself, and I didn't have the heart to leave him to self-flagellate any longer.

'Me too.'

'You're drunk?'

'I'm sorry too. But... yeah. I'm pretty drunk.' I pushed myself away so that I was no longer leaning against the edge of the sofa, and closed the gap between us so that I now stood directly in front of him. He gazed up at me with a look I couldn't decipher - it held too much in it. When I reached out to touch his face, I did it without thinking it through, or stopping to consider what signals I was giving. It just felt nice, like the right thing to do in the moment, a comforting action.

'Jo...' he whispered. His hand went up to mine, touching my wrist as I brushed my thumb over the skin of his cheek, pleasantly clean-shaven and soft. My other hand pulled the dressing gown tie loose, letting it fall open. He pressed his lips against the inside of my wrist, on my pulse, and then turned his face so it was level with my abdomen. He exhaled heavily, and I felt his hot breath; he kissed me there lightly, and I was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that I wanted his mouth all over me. I dropped my hand and knelt down between his legs, staring at the gradual straining of his trousers. 'Are you sure you want this?' he asked, his eyes wide.

'Yeah, I am,' I responded. Earlier in the night I refused to go down on another man, but now, with Matty... _I want to_. _I want to see his face twist in pleasure again, and to know it was all me_. I rested my cheek against his thigh, feeling his body heat through the material, letting the moment stretch out. I undid the zip, and he started to unbutton his shirt but seemed to give up halfway, the top half lying open across his chest as he steadied himself with a hand pushed against the bed. I loved the way he looked at me rapturously, as though in complete awe when I took his cock in my mouth, like I was some sort of deity. The power it lent me was compelling. I tried to blow him slowly, tantalisingly, testing myself as well as him. He swept my hair back from my face with his spare hand, and swore quietly until a groan slipped out. He tapped my cheek so that I knew he was close. I pulled away then, and stood naked in front of him as he threw the rest of his clothes off.

It was different, having sex this time, because it felt strangely illicit, even though we were consenting adults in the privacy of my hotel room. Some part of me knew it was all a terrible idea, that the consequences would be hell to work through when we hadn't even worked through the initial conflict that made everything so fucking difficult in the first place. And Matty knew this too, of course he did, which meant we both pursued orgasm thoughtlessly, with total abandon.

All the things I told myself I would let him do if he asked, I let him do. He pushed me to my hands and knees and took me from behind; I sat astride him and sank as deeply towards his hips as I could manage. And then he held me tight against him as I sat backwards in his lap, and I could see us in the mirror on the other side of the room, our bodies bathed in the gentle glow of the lamp by the bed. 

It was surreal to watch myself come undone as his hips rolled beneath mine, pushing up and into me. He noticed me looking and encouraged me, speaking dirty things in my ear, telling me how good I felt, and I was equally vocal, asking for more, as much as he could give, in words I could scarcely believe were my own. The last time I looked at our reflection, I dared to imagine a sweet, happy couple; now I watched in fascination as we fiercely wrung the basest feeling from each other. And it felt so right, so satisfying to feel him within, as he touched a place in me that made my head roll back and my body shudder.

We came like that eventually, breathless and sweating, utterly spent from our efforts. Even then, he didn't let me rest, knowing I could climax again, and brought his mouth between my legs, applying his tongue until I was writhing on the sheets and tangling my fingers in as much of his hair as I could reach.

Afterwards, Matty asked if I wanted to shower, but I told him to go first, secretly wanting to wait before I washed away the imprint of his touch. The first inkling of gravity hit me as he got up to go, and I admired the stark, pale beauty of his body. I wished that I could have seen him perform earlier, and appreciated the way he moved, without any preconception. He returned from the bathroom after ten minutes with a towel wrapped high around his waist, looking far more innocent than when he went in.

'Did you fly in yesterday as well?' I asked, although casual conversation felt somewhat bizarre now.

'Yeah, first thing. Rough flight though, I hated it.'

'Same for us. I, um... I had this really morbid, dark thought... if the plane went down, you know. What our last interaction would have been.'

Matty sat at the end of the bed, and I moved my legs to avoid his hair dripping water onto me. 'You're right, that is morbid,' he replied thoughtfully. 'And now what? Memories of this? It's quite a nice moment to have flash before your eyes, I suppose.'

'I prefer to think of being back home,' I mumbled, getting up to find the dressing gown again. 'I want to rewind a few weeks...'

'What would you change?'

'I don't know. It was just uncomfortable.'

'Well, I'm glad I found you here alone tonight,' Matty lay back onto the bed, and I suspected it was to avoid looking me directly in the eye. 'I wondered if... you and that guy... well, _that_ was kind of uncomfortable to see. I mean, it bothered me. I don't know what you were on, but that wasn't you.'

'It _bothered_ you? Matty, do you hear yourself right now?' I couldn't help but exclaim, incredulous. 'You have no say in the matter. You can't creep around staring daggers into the back of me.'

'It's not my business, fine,' he held his hands up defensively. 'But I'm always going to keep an eye out for you, aren't I? And aren't you glad I did this afternoon? Where would you be then?'

'Oh, don't you _dare_ hold that over me.' I whipped around to face him again, surprising myself with the force of my vitriol boiling over, the tension from the day's events wrecking my self-control. He drew himself upright, his expression taut. 'Don't you dare. I don't owe you a single thing.'

'I'm not fucking asking for anything!'

'Yeah, except for sole rights over my body! Jesus, Matty, I didn't realise you were this entitled.'

His face contorted in confusion as he grasped my words. 'I'm - I'm not! I wouldn't - you wanted to do this tonight too, remember? I didn't ask you to get naked, did I? But I was happy to do this if you were.'

I could feel angry tears welling up, and my words were muddled, which frustrated me even more. 'Fuck. I did that - I do this with you because I trust you! I can't just fuck anyone, and _especially_ not like this.'

'Okay, fine. So what was this meant to be then? If it's not casual to you?'

'Matty... you're asking too late.'

His brows knitted in confusion as he processed my words, and he got to his feet, reaching out for me, but I pulled away. 'Oh god, you're upset. Shit, Jo, I'm sorry.'

'No!' I protested, but my voice wobbled. 'I'm more mad than anything. Could you just go back to your room or something?'

He shook his head, gathering his clothes up. 'You're infuriating.'

I knew I should have just gone to the bathroom, get in the shower, leave him to sort himself out. But my skin prickled all over, and I hated that he didn't fully understand my meaning. 'This is what I was always afraid of, you know. Us using each other like this.'

Matty seemed stumped for a response. It was enough for me to turn away and start running the hot water. Part of me hoped he would appear in the doorway, and try to reason with me again, but I heard a door slam, and when I stepped back out into the room, it was empty.

***

When I woke the next morning, it took a few nauseating moments to recall and process the argument with Matty. I tried to reason with myself, admitting that in some way it was better that I had exorcised some of my frustrations. But the way he had looked at me before he left, distressed but resigned - that was a look I didn't think I would be able to forget, simply because it pained me so much. And yes, I might have been cross at the time, but now I just felt miserable, wishing I had stuck it out and at least tried to part on a more pleasant note, rather than sending him away and swerving an uncomfortable conversation. Or maybe we should never have fucked at all. Maybe he should never have come up to the room.

Helen knocked on my door just as I finished packing up, and I let her in. She eyed the bed as she walked into the room, and her gaze flickered back to me. She knew.

'You alright?' She asked quietly.

'I don't really know... I guess I will be. I'll have to be.'

'I came by last night, I wondered if we might have a nightcap. But I heard, so... I didn't knock,' she sighed, exhaling loudly and blowing her fringe out of her eyes. 'Not that I blame you. He must be pretty hard to resist.'

 _You have no idea_ , I thought wistfully, sweeping all the products in the bathroom into a bag, including the nice hotel ones I wanted to pilfer. 'It was really weird, actually. I don't think he thought it through before coming up.'

'Yeah, well. I'm not surprised. Like I said... bit messed up, isn't he?'

'Uh huh,' I replied listlessly, barely aware of the sweeping judgement I was agreeing with.

'How did you leave things?'

'I told him to get out,' I replied regretfully.

'I see. Well,' Helen chewed her lip, and shot me a sympathetic look. 'You've got another couple of weeks to distract yourself now, with the greasiest fucking food and dozens of cities we've never visited before. Even some sold out shows.'

This made my ears prick up a little. 'What? Sold _out_? Fully?'

'Yes, fully.' Her face glowed with excitement. 'Dean got the latest count from the booking agent this morning. Isn't it wild? Philly and Boston. Five hundred cap each, not massive, but...'

'Pretty fucking impressive,' I breathed, feeling myself relax at last as a smile twitched at the corners of my mouth.

Helen gripped my arms and squeezed them playfully. 'We did it, Jo! We're doing it!'

Her good mood was too infectious for me to languish in self-pity; she was right, we had looked forward to hitting those milestones for so long, it would be pathetic for me to take it for granted and get caught up in emotional turmoil. Dean knocked around ten to haul us downstairs for checkout, and it occurred to me how nice it would have been to stay for longer in the city, arguably the most interesting place we would be all tour.

Looking back, I don't remember many details about that tour. I like to think it's because I was caught up in the novelty of American towns, clapboard houses, cornfields that stretched on forever during the day and exaggeratedly wide streets, hot and dark on summer nights, neon signs and black, changeable letters that heralded our arrival and ensuing performance. The crowds were a pleasing mix of kids and young adults - pleasing because the kids weren't shy to come up and tell me how much they loved the EPs, how they looked forward to the album, how they loved what we wore and how we sang. They were honest in a way that the brooding so-called tastemakers wouldn't be, at least not to our faces. I couldn't imagine ever getting sick of such pure interactions.

But on the bus, as we pulled away from Manhattan just before noon on that first day after the festival, I got a cryptic message from Matty:

_been thinking about what you said last night and it really bothers me. i'll drop you a message when we're both back in london._

I didn't reply. He hadn't specified what exactly had bothered him, but I suspected it was the fact I had called him entitled. I didn't regret saying it, it _had_ felt like he was being entitled towards me - even possessive, a trait I deplored.

My tour schedule was easy to look up, I didn't doubt that he would reach out when we got back home. And maybe that was another factor in throwing myself headlong into the East Coast, pretending that this was life now - away from home, away from Matty. If I tried hard enough, if the kids kept coming, if Dean could make the right calls, perhaps we could do it forever.

***

On the final night, I slept with the sound engineer. It was a drunken, fumbled encounter, and when I woke up in a strange bed in a suburb of Richmond, Virginia, it was in a state of revulsion. I didn't even bother showering, instead creeping outside to the street and calling a cab back to the motel I had dropped my stuff at the previous afternoon.

The guy had been nice enough, relatively good-looking - green eyes behind cute glasses, floppy brown hair, lanky like a beanpole. He reminded me a bit of a young Alex James, who I'd always fancied. So when he kissed me, it was still nice enough, but I realised about halfway through undressing in his almost depressingly plain apartment that I only like him aesthetically - nice to look at for a while, pleasant to the touch, satisfying to be in close proximity to. But I didn't want this man _inside_ me, he had no power to summon the electricity of pleasure to my body. 

Rather than leave there and then, I decided to go through with it - half English awkwardness, half personal experiment, just to see if I could, if a night like the one spent with Matty in New York could be replicated. And yet this man's face when he came was wooden and embarrassing, so I faked my own and pretended to be far more tired than I was, just to be able to sleep and live in my own head again.

Helen was still out for the count when I reached the motel, sprawled across the double bed and probably quite enjoying having all the space to herself. I quietly freshened up in the bathroom, and crept back into the room to sit in the barrel-like chair, a mid-century relic that was positioned before a writing desk with some fresh cream paper, a cheap biro with the motel's logo on it, and a mirror affixed to the wall, so that it might double up as a dressing table. I examined my reflection, trying to remain objective.

When I saw my face printed inside the Guardian Review, splashed across festival sidings and staring down from the header of each review (Nia's shots had been used extensively in press packs), I had observed my likeness with a certain detachment. This wasn't me, I told myself: it was simply a projection of me. I remembered the thoughts that had run through my head when Dean first signed on as our manager. If we - Helen and I - were really going to go ahead with it, if some measure of success was within our reach, then I had hoped I would still recognise myself, that I wouldn't change at all. Now I knew that was a futile ambition. In fact, I would be split into two - the public, and the private, the latter always wondering if the former was doing her justice. 

The version of myself that stared back at me now was numb. She didn't know what she was supposed to want, or miss, because the rules that worked before - for ordinary people, with ordinary lives - didn't seem fair any more, and why should they? There were different things at stake.

I was acutely aware that I didn't want to miss a single opportunity that came our way. If we were going to be this fortunate, we were going to do right by it, and I found myself constantly questioning - am I meant to be doing this? Would that shoot be selling out? Is it okay to keep putting off the album, basking in the hype surge of early singles? That was a whole other kettle of fish entirely, how to find the balance between doing things my way and killing our momentum in the water.

And all of that came before my personal, emotional life. I adored Helen and prized my friendship with her above all others, and was thankful that it was never likely to take a hit. But my love life had always been a mess, full of missteps and misinterpreted intentions. I thought I would always be doomed to blunder past someone ideal who was right in front of me - what was the saying, like ships in the night? Something like that. Romantic relationships made me feel like I was reaching out blindly into darkness, treading unfamiliar, often pretty uncomfortable waters, and this was only exacerbated by my increasingly abnormal lifestyle.

I combed through my damp hair slowly, getting the tangles out of the ends. Helen grunted and stretched from the bed, gradually becoming conscious.

'Hey, you. When did you get back?'

'About half an hour ago,' I smiled warmly at her through the mirror's reflection. 'I can't wait to get out of here.'

'Really? I was under the impression that you wanted this to go on forever.'

'The gigs, yeah. But everything else is too draining to be sustainable.'

'Oh. Are you a bit knackered this morning?' She raised an eyebrow suggestively.

'No, far from it. In fact, you probably should have stopped me from getting in that cab last night,' I yawned, flicking my hair behind me as I braided it into a single plait.

'Mate, I was too far gone on rum and cokes. And I wasn't about to cock-block you,' she sat upright, studying me for a moment. 'That bad, huh? I thought he looked cute.'

I shrugged. 'It just felt really fucking weird. I didn't like the way he touched me, in the end. Maybe my standards are too high,' I said softly, looking meaningfully at her.

'Give it time. There won't be a magic person who replaces _him_. You'll just... forget the details. Or the infatuation will fade.'

'Mm. I hope so.'

I slept again on the drive to Washington, and spent the flight back to Heathrow stuffing my face with the free packets of miniature pretzels and steaming through three Best Picture nominees on the in-flight entertainment. The air-con was aggressive on the plane and I wrapped my scarf around my neck, nuzzling my cheek against the wool and inhaling the faint, warm scent left on it, reminiscent of almonds.

I told myself I would go straight home and collate the half-finished demos I had lying around, finally giving some shape to album material, but after dropping our cases at the flat, Dean insisted that we all go for dinner, as a parting gesture until the next festival somewhere in Suffolk. It was our local Indian, the sort of place with only six tables and where the food seemed to take an hour to prepare, but when it did, it was sizzling, and exceptionally good. My phone buzzed in my pocket just as the sides arrived, and I checked it surreptitiously under the table.

_are you free for dinner on friday? let me take you out. please jo. xxx_

I pushed it back into my jeans, heart thumping. Everything around the table was in full technicolour all of a sudden, as if it had been a dull, sepia-toned seventies photograph just moments before.


	10. Stoke Newington.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London, Joanna and Matty reconnect and try to resolve the weird tension between them, but being back in each other's lives means some things can't be hidden.

_Yeah I Know_

_(Arthur Russell - That's Us/Wild Combination)_

_(Pinegrove - The Metronome)_

The address Matty sent was in a quiet part of Stoke Newington, the sort of place he knew we wouldn't be bothered. Helen thought I was mad to accept his offer of dinner, and besides, it was late, and dark out already, the humid phase of midsummer where a heatwave had recently given way to showers. I was grudgingly surprised when I got out of the taxi cab and appraised the restaurant's windowfront; I wasn't sure what I had expected, but it wasn't this, a sleek Italian joint with more than a whiff of _date night_ about it. I felt distinctly underdressed in my white trousers and shirt, the same candy-striped one I wore to the party in Notting Hill.

Matty looked small and oddly shy seated at the table alone, his eyes glued to his phone. His head snapped up as I approached, and he put his phone down sheepishly, as if caught out. Up close, he had scrubbed up very well indeed, although he still sported comical under-eye circles and his hair was in its usual barely-controlled corkscrews. It perpetually amazed me how he could exude such a different energy in a different setting.

'Hey,' I blurted out and took the seat across from him, immediately abandoning any pretence at appearing cool and slightly detached. 'How've you been?'

'Alright, not too bad,' Matty replied brightly. He hated small talk; his willingness to engage in it now was a surefire sign that he was as uneasy as I was. 'I hope you don't mind this place. They just do a really good lasagne.'

'No, it's fine. I like it,' I paused, turning to glance at the specials board above our heads. 'Stoke Newington, interesting choice. Did you know Thurston Moore lives here?'

'I did, yeah... bumped into him once.' he replied distractedly, chewing his lip as a waiter approached us. 'A bottle of, um... is Malbec alright with you?'

'Sure,' I waved a hand flippantly, and the waiter took the wine list from him and skulked away again. 'Were all your locals too upmarket for us?'

'I just thought it would be a bit weird, you know. A bit stiff.'

 _And this isn't_ , I thought, just about catching myself from rolling my eyes. 'Well, you wanted to talk.'

'Right, yeah. I did. I'm just going to, sort of... jump straight into it,' Matty exhaled heavily, and started to examine the folded pattern pressed into his napkin as he spoke. 'I just really hate the idea that I came across as entitled, last month. That's... I mean, I'm embarrassed to think that was the case. And I'm really sorry that it was.'

'So you agree?' I replied gently. I had no desire to challenge him now, or throw it back in his face.

'Yeah. It wasn't my place to have an opinion about who you were with, I know - that sort of possessiveness sickens me. But believe me when I say that when I helped you that day, it came from a place of support. It just felt ridiculous to stand to one side, knowing that I could do something and deliberately choosing not to, regardless of where things stood with me and you.'

'Alright, I understand that. But... I don't get why you were so cold with me.'

Matty rubbed his eyes and cupped his chin in his hands, brooding over his words. 'I was afraid I had created a bit of a mess. I didn't know how to handle it.'

I had to laugh at this. 'Well, not right then you didn't. I was _grateful,_ Matty. Pretty much everything else was messy, but not that. It was a relatively pure moment, looking back.'

The waiter arrived then, with the wine, and Matty looked flustered at the whole ceremony of tasting the stuff, waiting for it to be poured out and for the waiter to wander off again. 'Always the worst timing... anyway. Messy. Right. This right here,' he gestured with the brimming glass in front of him, 'is no excuse, I know. But if it's any help, I think I was operating on instinct when I came to your room. I felt like shit for a multitude of reasons and I, um... I trust you, you know?' His eyes flickered downwards here, apparently self-conscious. 'You're a very reassuring presence, and even when we fall out, that doesn't really change. Fuck knows what I thought we would talk about, I didn't plan it out. I guess I just hoped that seeing you would make me feel better, though I realise now that sounds ridiculously self-serving.'

I reddened at the memory, thinking of how my equally drunken self had interpreted it as a come-on. 'And I just... dropped my dressing gown. Oh god. I must have seemed like such a degenerate.'

Matty smirked at the memory. 'Well, I liked it more than enough, didn't I? Or we wouldn't have fucked each other.'

'Yeah, but... I didn't exactly read the room, did I?' I shook my head, exasperated with myself and rapidly losing composure. 'I'm so sorry... I sound like _such_ a hypocrite.'

He quickly grabbed my hand, squeezing it comfortingly. 'I'm not really that hungry. Shall we get out of here and walk? Come on.'

I let him pay for the wine on our way out, and we took the bottle with us, turning down the road towards Clissold Park. He brought a wine glass out from under his jacket, that he had presumably swiped from the restaurant, and poured it out for me, swigging from the bottle himself. 'Don't be embarrassed. We were adults, we knew what we were doing.'

' _You_ might have, but what I find difficult is working out which role I'm supposed to play around you these days,' I said. We found a bench and stopped to sit, staring across the dark, grassy expanse of the park. 'I mean, am I Joanna, one of your mates? Or Joanna, fun in bed?' I sighed, punctuating the latter with air quotes.

'I don't want you to have to play a role. You don't need to demarcate the way we spend time together.'

'Well, I find it hard not to. There's not exactly a blueprint laid out for me, Matty... or anything in my life right now, if I'm honest.' I extracted a cigarette from my pocket, taking a deep breath before lighting up. 'You never asked me why I was such a bitch to you at Heaven.'

Matty suppressed a laugh. 'That's one way of putting it. You were pretty cold.'

'I know. I'm so sorry, I mean that. You didn't deserve any of that shit from me.'

'You just weren't communicating. It was irritating,' he shrugged.

'Also one way of putting it,' I protested. 'There was just radio silence from you afterwards, for weeks. Which has happened before, by the way.'

'I assumed it was best to let you decide what terms you wanted us to interact on.'

'Well, you may have overestimated my decision-making capabilities. Seems like neither of us were very good at communicating in the end, were we?'

'Fucking terrible.' A smile crept back onto his face again, as he held out a hand for the cigarette and I shared it with him. 'So what was the problem in the first place?

I weighed up my response for a moment, to avoid giving away too much embarrassing information, or revealing my fear of losing him. 'I just don't think I can sleep with you. As amazing as it can be... it fucks with my head.'

'That's completely fine. It was always fine,' he frowned as he blew the smoke out. 'I guess we got carried away. Right?' He looked to me warily for agreement.

'Yes. I suppose we did,' I held his gaze with apprehension, until he picked up the wine bottle again, and we shared a few more swigs, contemplating the euphemistic agreement we had arrived at. 'Do you think there's a chance for things to go back to how they were? I just have the vision in my head of us mixing my demos, watching _Mississippi Burning_... playing pool, laughing ourselves stupid. Can we do that again?'

'Of course we can, you mug. Come here.' Matty enveloped me in one of his warm, demonstrative hugs, and held me for a few moments as I gulped down the lump I hadn't realised had been hovering in the back of my throat.

'When we play the same festival again I want us to get drunk and watch other bands and eat all the crappy food we can lay our hands on.'

'Well, what's next in the calendar? Reading, right? Fucking hell, I'll just be wobbly the whole time, thinking about the myriad ways that things could go wrong.'

'That doesn't sound like you,' I teased.

'Oh, well, excuse me,' Matty blustered, 'maybe I should sack off all the rehearsals, just tell the guys we're doing group meditation instead.'

'You won't even need in-ears. Just hone your telepathy.'

'Cheers to that,' he said, clinking the wine bottle against my glass, and drawing his feet up onto the bench, hugging his knees to his chest. 'You haven't even seen us play yet, have you?'

'Unbelievably, no,' I thought guiltily of the tryst with the actor in New York that kept me from seeing them then. 'Though I've heard plenty. I think I have a vague idea of what to expect.'

'Don't believe everything you read, Joanna. Especially not when it concerns me.' I narrowed my eyes playfully at him, and reached for the cigarette as he grinned facetiously.

'People write nice things about you these days, don't they?'

'How boring. Do you want people to think you're just nice, or do you want to inspire rabid emotion?'

'I don't think I'm a sex symbol in quite the same way.'

'Point taken.' Matty got to his feet, clumsily knocking over the bottle of wine he had left beside the bench and sending the contents streaking in dark rivulets across the path. 'Oh, bollocks... never mind, it wasn't the greatest stuff.' He stared at the blossoming stain on the pavement, hands absent-mindedly tucked in his pockets.

'Have you been alright, aside from all of our crap?' I asked tentatively.

'Yeah, fine. Sat in the studio most of the time. It's a good distraction.'

'That's not much of an answer. You could be fucking weeping over your guitar for all I know.'

Matty snorted with laughter. 'Haven't done that since I was nineteen, don't worry. No, I mean... I don't know, I don't really take a break, do I? Don't know what I would do with the time. It's alright when I'm in company, but when I'm alone with my inner monologue, I don't really talk to myself very nicely, I guess.' His head was turned so that I couldn't really see his face, and he blew out the smoke from his cigarette with a huff, casually appearing to observe the surroundings.

'I get it,' I said quietly. 'I beat myself up over everything now, so much more than I used to. It took a lot of confidence and resilience from me to get to this point, I know it did. But that was because I knew what I was doing along the way. Now I've reached that destination, I just feel... sort of aimless, like I'm treading water. I didn't plan this far ahead. And I'm so afraid of resting on my laurels, becoming middle of the road, but I don't feel like I have the freedom to turn around and say, _fuck_ the marketing. _Fuck_ the critics. And I can't afford to bide my time for much longer, or they'll all lose interest.'

'Shit,' Matty pulled two more cigarettes out, lighting them both and passing one to me. 'I think I take a lot for granted.'

'No, you just have an unwavering vision. You talk about wanting to have faith in something Matty, but you've got your expression - you can trust that, and have faith in it. You can't really put a foot wrong, creatively.'

'I think Pitchfork would beg to differ.'

'Oh, you don't give a shit what they think. Stop deflecting,' I nudged his forearm playfully.

'Alright! Alright. But remember, I've had years to think about this stuff. Give yourself some credit. There's nothing wrong with biding your time. I know that whatever you'll come out with in the end will be well worth it.'

I blushed involuntarily. 'God, I hope so. I'm almost afraid to pick up the phone when Dean calls now, worrying what the next expectation will be.' A police car drove by the park, siren wailing deafeningly, and I waited for it to pass before speaking again. 'Well, anyway... being kinder to yourself is easier said than done. But I'm only on the other end of the phone if you need a kinder voice in your ear.'

'I know you are. Thank you.' Matty sat back down on the bench, close beside me so that our shoulders touched. I felt the meaning in his words reinforced through his proximity, and we sat in companionable silence for a few moments as we finished our cigarettes. 'You know, I think I am a bit hungry now,' he admitted sheepishly.

We found a chicken shop further down the road and sat on the red plastic seats while we ate. A group of three students came in, half drunk on a night out, and one of them did a double-take at Matty; he glanced at me apologetically as they crowded around excitedly.

'I love _A Brief Inquiry_ , Matty.'

'Could you sign my shirt?'

'I bought my Reading ticket last week! I know it's going to be sick.'

I suppressed a giggle. 'See?' We watched them collect their food and bustle out, twittering away happily. 'They know. No wobbles.'

'Still. Maybe you should be side of stage, in case I need the favour returned.'

'I'm sure the guys will have you covered.'

'I meant for moral support,' Matty grinned, grabbing the ketchup bottle from me and squirting it over his chips.

I knew he was only messing, but I still felt oddly touched at the thought. 'Alright, side stage. I'll be there.'

***

A week later, I found myself in Ladbroke Grove again, this time rushing off the bus barely in time for the right stop and fumbling with my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the late morning glare. The tube journey from south to west was a drag, and I was becoming increasingly cautious of irrational spending, so taxis were out of the question any time before midnight. The studio the band used was within walking distance of Matty's house, but we had arranged that I would meet him first.

I called him as I walked down the high street, trying to remember which side road was the right one. 'Matty, hey. I'm almost at yours, I've got pastries from the cafe near my house.'

'Heavenly. Good timing, I'm ready to go.'

'See you in a minute then.'

The front door swung open as I reached the gate, and he stepped out, tossing his keys in his hand. 'Fancy a drive?'

'You've got to be kidding,' I flipped up my sunglasses, raising my eyebrows. 'You lazy arse. You told me the studio was only in Maida Vale.'

'Yeah, it is. But check this out.' With a click of the fob, he unlocked the sleek, conspicuously new car parked on the kerb behind me, a broad smile spread across his face like a kid at Christmas. 'I picked it up last week, let's give it a spin.'

'You sound like my dad.'

'What, he's into electric cars too?'

'Oh my god.'

Matty was a surprisingly deft driver, not that there was much room for error dealing with all the other cars coming off the Westway. The car's interior was compact, and it was subtly unnerving being in close proximity to him again. He stuck on Arthur Russell's _Calling Out Of Context,_ and because it was one of our favourites, it defused the atmosphere somewhat as he delightedly told me how he had worked out how to replicate the exact drum loop on 'I Like You!'. By the time we pulled up at the studio I didn't want to get out, and we sat for another couple of minutes just waiting for a song to end, drumming our fingers on the dashboard.

He led me up the steps of a nondescript mid-century building and tapped in the code on the door, leading me through the labyrinthine corridors like it was second nature, and rambling as we walked. 'Alright, so I'm thinking... there's a couple of demos I want to show you, see if you have any thoughts or ideas. But you brought your laptop, right?' I nodded. 'Great. Use anything you like the look of, take advantage of this set-up, alright? No need to ask, it's all yours if you want it.' Matty paused again, peering through the glass of one of the sound-proofed doors. 'And I mean that. Come and go whenever you want. I'll write down the door code for you.'

'Okay. If you say so.'

'I do,' he pushed open the door finally, which opened out onto a small room that was half taken up by a desk, and the window into a recording space, in which a drummer was playing a light, skittering rhythm across a kit that had been carefully mic'd up. 'It's about time you meet my partner in crime.'

Another, slightly older guy sat at the desk, presumably a sound engineer, nodded towards me before his attention flickered back to the monitors in front of him. After barely twenty seconds, the take seemed complete; Matty pushed open the studio door noisily.

'George, get over here. We brought food.'

George got up from behind the kit, stretched, and made his way over to the door. He affably stuck his hand out in greeting. 'Terrible manners on him. Who're you?'

'Jo,' I shook his hand, faintly aware that he had several inches of height over both Matty and I. 'Nice to meet you properly.'

'It is. I've heard quite a bit about you, actually. All very good.' He side-eyed Matty. 'He reckons you're a dab hand on the piano, but I'd be careful if I were you, don't let him rope you into anything without at least a credit.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matty ruffle the front of his hair, and I knew he thought he was subtle, but it was evidence enough for me that he was suddenly self-conscious and avoiding eye contact. 'He does, does he?' I grinned. 'No chance. I wouldn't want a credit.'

Watching them work together all morning was pure entertainment; nothing Matty described was in proper musical terms, instead just a charades-worthy imitation of the beat he had in mind, or a melody sketched out with the help of either the guitar, a synth or his voice, but George knew implicitly what he meant, so instinctive was their process. It reminded me a lot of the way Helen and I worked. Despite being reassured on more than one occasion, I still worried about getting in the way, and occasionally took myself out of the large space we were based in, to fetch a coffee or sit with the sound engineer and my laptop, pestering him with endless questions and troubleshooting tips, and he was patient and generous enough to oblige.

After a couple of hours, George absconded to another room, and Matty went looking for me, or so I assumed when he poked his head into one of the storage rooms I found myself in. Drawn like a moth to a lamp, it housed some of the most beautiful instruments I'd seen, a far better collection than any showroom in London, mostly because they were highly varied rather than just row upon row of the same vintage guitar model spanning a few years in the sixties. I told Matty just as much, to which he responded by confessing that he had plenty of those at home too, and I laughed at him. He took being laughed at quite well, particularly when it was a result of deliberately sending himself up, and I was starting to wonder if there was ever a time when he wasn't.

'Now that the big friendly giant has gone, I want to show you something else I've been working on,' Matty rambled, tossing a pair of headphones in my direction. 'I'm not sure if it sounds a bit too in-your-face, sort of dumb, so I need a second opinion...'

'I doubt it's _dumb_ ,' I smirked, remembering the last time Matty had asked for a second opinion, all fidgeting and nerves. Just like the last time, too, it was hard to maintain a poker face. I covered my mouth with my hand to suppress a grin, staring at the desktop screen as my ears absorbed the sound. There were no vocals yet, but I knew once he sang over the top it would create a whole other dimension. 'Bombastic,' I gave my judgement as the track rolled to the end, pulling the headphones down again. 'It treads the fine line, you know? And the vocals can twist it completely too, stop it from being too saccharine.'

'There, I knew you'd talk some sense into me,' he said, sitting back in his chair, tapping a pen on the edge of the desk. 'I think you have an ear for the context. I only hope everyone else does.'

'Well, they must, or you wouldn't have succeeded on the level you have already.'

'You know what, I change my mind. You're just biased,' Matty replied wryly.

'Of course I am. But I'm not going to hold back if I think something's missing, promise.'

'No, I don't imagine you will.'

We stayed at the studio until late in the afternoon, messing about with the arrangement for one of Matty's demos, and tracking some new ideas as we became accustomed to playing together. It appeared that half the time he was churning out material just for fun, with about half of it put aside to work on with the band, and the other half for his own personal experimentation. It was the latter that we focused on, and I could feel my ideas expanding with the possibilities carried by the sheer scale of the studio.

I went back to the studio the following week, two days in a row, and then four days the next. That was the only space we hung out, perhaps because it was a safe one, with little chance of complication. Not that art or the process of creation didn't bring us closer, but since the studio was a designated professional space of sorts, it made the time we spent together simpler. I still felt endlessly relieved that despite the mess we created in New York, we had been grown-up enough to put it aside and manage to retrieve the dynamic that had made us enjoy each other's company so much in the first place.

Sometimes we went for lunch breaks, dropping by an Italian sandwich shop around the corner, or a bit further down the road, a noodle bar, sitting and pulling apart plans for the afternoon's studio time or sometimes going off track altogether. My favourite afternoons were the ones where the lunch breaks lasted two hours because we were so busy debating whatever was in the news that day and trying to make each other laugh with dumb stories that we forgot the time, it passed so quickly. But eventually professional Matty would inevitably take over, and we would hurriedly pay and rush back for a few more takes, the lines increasingly blurred between his experiments and tentative demos for my new album.

I didn't know what to make of it all. The process was so smooth that I was loathe to disrupt it by asking _what is this? What exactly are we doing here?_ The irony was not lost on me that it was similar to the sort of anxiety around trying to work out whether you wanted to pursue a relationship after fucking a few times. The music-making was, for all intents and purposes, entirely platonic, but the results were sounding tantalisingly good.

And occasionally I would look over and see him concentrating hard on a guitar part he was tracking, or he would furrow his brow in thought over lunch, and I would remember the fact that we had seen each other in the grip of orgasm and knew every inch of each other's bodies. This would make my cheeks warm with shame at allowing such intrusive thoughts, but I couldn't help it sometimes - they weren't merely naughty imaginings, but vivid, passionate memories. I wondered if he had some of the same flashbacks, but eventually stopped theorising, and got better at compartmentalising the whole affair.

***

A couple of weeks before Reading, I was on a coffee break in the studio, watching George and Adam track their parts for something I suspected would be all over the radio in a matter of months, so enormous was the sound. Matty was late, which was not unusual, but it was gone one in the afternoon, which _was_ unusually slack of him. Often I would use this time to sketch out some more ideas on my laptop, maybe rearranging the amps and switching my gear around to see if it would help me nail a certain run or lend more warmth to a bass tone. 

Several days I had deliberately gone in on my own, using the door code just as Matty had suggested, but he would always let me know to expect him, and he was not someone to flake out. Eventually he stumbled in, looking bright-eyed, but wearing the same clothes as he had the day before, albeit now slightly more creased than before.

'Morning,' Adam commented, in a tone that I grasped to be a small dig. Matty's brows knitted together quizzically.

'Afternoon. I'm not late, you're just keen.'

'Sure.' The other two glanced at each other and smirked, as if sharing a private joke. Matty ignored this, and flopped down onto the sofa beside me.

The day was spent on synths, a potentially infinite activity with us both peering over the same instruments, so we split up again, each playfully challenging the other to record a minute of something to impress. By the time I returned home, I had a whole host of material to show Helen, and by way of this, managed to convince her to come with me the following day, despite her reservations about Matty that had persisted since Governors Ball.

'I hope he's acting like a proper adult now,' she grumbled in the street outside as I keyed in the code.

'Keep your voice down, god... we're cool now. Everything is back to normal, honest.'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

But Matty's charm worked well when he really switched it on, and even the cynical Helen was drawn in all over again by his curiosity and obvious admiration for talent in others. I looked on proudly as she made the Juno make sounds that clearly none of the boys had thought possible. 

Some small, self-critical part of me had wondered if I might feel jealous at opening up this space, where I had shared what felt like a sacred experience, to someone else, but of course Helen wasn't just any old 'else' - she implicitly understood what we were trying to do here. It also meant that I could depend less on Matty, because with Helen there we could finally function as our unit, in the flow that had ensured our success in the past. And there was plenty for us to work on, with the ideas that Matty and I had played around with still only incomplete semblances of a finished product.

The following week, we had the afternoons to ourselves, as the others began rehearsing in earnest for Reading. I felt entirely guilt-free about using the larger space now, and Helen and I hardly suffered from the lack of a studio engineer; between the two of us, we coped just fine. I started to track vocals on a couple of songs, and there was something comforting about hearing her voice in my ear, one of the most trusted ones I could want to tell me if I was sounding sharp or needed to 'put some more welly into it' (her words, not mine).

'Man, I love that chorus. Maybe you should give it an extra round, really make it an earworm.'

'Yeah, it is massive, isn't it? Shall we re-record that drum track or do you wanna cheat and duplicate it?'

'Duplicate for now so you can track vocals and then we have time to go back to it if you want. Come back through for now, let's narrow down these takes.'

I left the booth and retook my seat beside Helen at the desk, staring up at the rows of audio tracks on the screen. 'Which one do you reckon I came closest to nailing?'

'Second to last. And out of interest,' she asked slyly, 'who is Matty on the phone to half the time? Did you notice on Monday he stepped out for an _hour_?'

I glared at her murderously. 'You stirrer.'

'Sorry! I know I am,' she declared, unperturbed. 'But are you bothered?'

'Why would I be?'

She cast a withering look towards me, the sort that told me I was underestimating how well she knew the machinations of my head. 'Says you with the overactive imagination.'

'Probably business.' I kept my own gaze fixed determinedly on the screen, trying to maintain an air of slight disinterest.

'Hmm.' She left it at that, but she was right. I had been forcibly ignoring any sign that Matty was talking to someone else, telling myself vehemently that it was none of my business either way. Numbness might have been difficult to manufacture but that wasn't about to stop me from trying. Just because I was practically a monk, didn't mean he had to be. And besides, I reasoned, what I didn't know couldn't hurt me.

Rather than going straight home, at seven we went from the studio to a pub in Camberwell, an old haunt where we often saw friends play ramshackle sets, in our years at university. But it felt strange to sit there now, pints in hand, and recognise none of the faces. Even the music felt satirical, like a slightly snide in-joke that we weren't privy to. Helen and I exchanged glances as we watched, an unspoken agreement passing between us. If there was no possibility of returning to the world we came from, we had better make our new one a home.


	11. Maida Vale.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to have their text previews switched off...

_Undo_

It used to make my ex edgy that I was so open, sometimes even nosy. I think he thought that, because I felt I had nothing to hide, I expected the same to apply to people around me, as a fair exchange. He never said anything, but I could tell. I detected a certain twitchiness whenever his phone vibrated, as if I might pick it up and inspect it. And unless there was some affair I was unaware of, he didn't have anything to worry about; I knew about his bad habits, the debts, his painfully racist father. In the end I dumped him after that tipping point of about nine months, when someone's true self starts to be revealed, warts and all.

So it was surprising to me that Matty was so lackadaisical in this respect, leaving his phone on any number of unsuitable surfaces and periodically forgetting where it was, before one of us located it for him. When it lit up with a new message, for the split second that it took for me to realise it was his phone and not mine, my gaze would flicker at the screen.

**_D_ **

_Babe are you sure?_

_Don't think they'll be open_

_Get me something from the shop near your house xxx_

The messages flashed up in quick succession. I hated myself for looking, but after the first one ( _babe?_ ) I didn't have the strength of will to restrain my burning curiosity. It was ostensibly harmless. And I hated myself for the churning in my gut. I stared fixedly at the screen in front of me, and turned the volume up in my headphones, even though I knew it wouldn't benefit the mix at all. Later he wandered over, picked up his phone and typed a response with a blank expression, before turning to me.

'You good? What's in progress?'

I smiled weakly. 'Just starting to mix this one a bit. I know it's early, but I don't think there's anything more I want to add. It kind of encapsulates what I had in mind for a long-form statement.'

Matty hadn't heard this track since it was in embryonic stages; it was one of the projects Helen and I had worked on intensively. And although I _was_ concerned about hurrying the process, I was also painfully aware that I was still enjoying the recording facilities at Matty's invitation, which he would never rescind, but if he disappeared for long enough it might have grown difficult to excuse my presence without justifying it with payment - which I was not in a position to afford. I watched him carefully as he gave his full attention to listening, and he made a face that told me it was hitting the right spot.

'Joanna. _This_ is fucking sick. Don't tweak the EQ too much. Not that it's for me to say, of course... it just doesn't seem like it needs much production.'

I blushed. 'Do you think I can honestly say I've stopped procrastinating an album?'

'You tell me. You're the one who called it a long-form statement.'

I sighed, sitting back in the swivel chair. 'I'd better let Dean know. He's been bugging me for a timeline, and rightfully so.'

Matty nudged my arm as I kept scrolling through the tracks, opening up the Master EQ and closing it again in indecision. 'Stop that, leave it for a bit now. Let's get lunch, before you decide to compress it all to high heaven.'

This time we walked for a while, out of Maida Vale and towards Kilburn, finding a pub that offered burgers and mouth-watering curly fries. Matty chain-smoked the whole way, and we sat in the beer garden, soaking up the August heat. He was bleary-eyed and had a summer head cold that was giving him anxiety about the imminent Reading performance, and I hadn't slept well on account of the heat overnight, but even as we sat on the bench, both perspiring through our clothes and not saying much, I felt a lightweight, floating happiness in my chest. Despite the image of the phone screen imprinted in the back of my mind - or maybe because of it - these companionable, snatched moments were precious to me.

***

During this time, Helen was starting to make connections in earnest. Rather than just aspiring to party with her heroes, she started to drag me further into the social world that I had glimpsed at the party, but a more approachable side. The band that had been such an impressive support act at Heaven were gaining more traction now, and through Dean, we requested that they join us in Europe in September. The lead singer, Lewis - the one that jerked around like a puppet freed of his strings - was an infuriatingly precocious musician who turned out to be a couple of years younger than us, though the two other guys in the band were mine and Helen's age. We had some mutual friends, as it turned out (the bassist even used to know Robin), and after a couple of evenings spent at the same gigs and in the flat in Streatham, we managed to inveigle our respective managers into agreeing to a split single.

Lewis himself was an intriguing character; not difficult exactly, but quiet, until we hit upon one of his favoured topics in conversation. His energy reminded me somewhat of Thom Yorke, but Eve, his girlfriend, was far more laid back and easygoing. Their drummer always seemed AWOL, either that or he had his own circles, but ultimately there were often six of us, an altogether well aligned group: me, Helen and Ethan, Lewis and Eve, and Jay the bassist, whose name I was perpetually unsure of - was it the letter J, short for a longer name? Or literally J-a-y? Even the music publications got it wrong. I suspected he rather liked the ambiguity.

If they knew about my connection to Matty, they didn't say anything. At this point I had no idea how he spent his time outside of the studio now, which had become our base. And I was thankful for that. It was the culmination of everything I had honestly hoped for after our first meeting, before we got wasted and jumped on each other. I kept telling myself that, at least.

***

In a sudden mid-August downpour, I was caught out and drenched to the bone, ready to run the last hundred yards down the street to the studio. Waiting at the traffic lights on the opposite pavement, I turned quickly and changed direction, darting instead into the deli across the road and making a fallacy of staring hard at their menu. What prompted this change of direction was the sight of Matty being dropped off outside, getting out of a gleaming BMW and ducking his head back inside in a gesture that strongly resembled giving the driver a kiss.

My reaction was the opposite of burning curiosity; I had absolutely no desire to stare, or get a glimpse of whoever _she_ was. Instead, I stood awkwardly in front of the display of pastries and shot apologetic glances at the impatient man behind the till as I dithered over a half-decent excuse for coming into the shop in the first place. My stomach and my brain fought furiously; yes, that _was_ a raging, petulant jealousy twisting my guts, but _no_ , I had no right to this feeling. After all, wouldn't that make me just as bad as him in New York?

I lambasted myself for such hypocrisy. Entitled, my ass. I thought guiltily of the way I had flaunted my dalliance with the actor. This wasn't nearly as bad, I tried to reason with myself, but actually, perhaps the fact this mystery girl was out of sight meant that my imagination would only run wild instead. Perhaps it would have been better if Matty _had_ been sleeping around visibly. Ironically, what twinged the most was the thought that he was lying in bed for hours having deep and tender conversations with someone else, in the glorious way that I had experienced for a short time.

'Regular latte, please,' I mumbled. This would be a very long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this one is short - the moment sort of has to stand alone, I couldn't force it into a bigger section. Also slowing down slightly because I'm catching up with myself now...!


	12. Reading.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Reading Festival, the highlight of 2019's calendar - a weekend of reinforced loyalties and a surprising betrayal...

_(The Horrors - Sea Within A Sea)_

_(Caroline Polachek - Look At Me Now)_

_(Wallows - Do Not Wait)_

_August Bank Holiday weekend._

'Now for God's sake, don't lose these,' Dean sighed and handed Helen and I our guest passes. 'I'd have to move heaven and earth to get them reissued, and I really don't fancy that.'

'Have a drink, Dean, loosen up,' Helen rolled her eyes, although I knew she was seething with pure adrenaline and the anticipation of rolling around a dusty field for a whole weekend. 'You don't need to babysit us this weekend, there's no stage times to worry about.'

'I still wish we could have done something about that,' he frowned, unfolding his sunglasses and squinting at the late morning sun. 'Another festival set would have boosted your profile with sponsors. Everything seems to be lagging so dreadfully at this point in the summer.'

Helen and I exchanged looks. 'Alright, well, we'll leave you to... everything. Later.' She grasped my arm and marched me off towards the guest bar as we giggled between ourselves with the sheer thrill of being back at our teenage haunt, but this time with a wad of drinks tickets and a tent that wasn't soaked in strangers' piss. 'God, we're going to kill it this weekend, and we're not even playing a single note.' 

She was right; I felt genuinely good about myself for the first time in months, and perhaps it was the influence of the clement weather, or I was achieving some sort of self-actualisation, but I didn't feel the need to dissect it much. We had helped each other pick out clothes that morning before the drive down the M4 to Reading, in a flurry of excitement, and the result was a velvet shirt and neat dark trousers 'with the aplomb of a Joni Mitchell album cover' - and not for the first time, Helen's words, not mine.

She leaned against the bar, her gaze skimming the familiar faces across the enclosure, resplendent in a blindingly white dress and silver jewellery. 'Where did Matty say he'd meet you?'

'He didn't,' I frowned, fumbling with my phone. 'I think Adam is coming to find us.'

'Oh, good. I like Hann.'

I shot a warning glance in her direction. 'I'm going to let them know we're here. But I don't want to be a bother. They've got more than enough on their hands.'

'Don't act all modest now, we've been sharing that studio with them for weeks. Nothing wrong with checking in and giving them a good send-off,' Helen shrugged, drinking deeply from the enormous pint of IPA she now clutched.

'You make it sound like they're leaving to go somewhere.'

'Well, it's a leap into the unknown of sorts, isn't it? Headline slot is no small undertaking. I bet Matty's absolutely shitting himself.'

'You're right, he is,' Adam's voice echoed, making us both jump. 'And you aren't difficult to spot.' He cast a shadow as he towered over us, wearing a dark suit, sunglasses and a wide smile.

'What about you, how are you holding up?' I asked on the gangway through the trailers.

'Honestly, I'm shitting myself too. I'm just better at hiding it than he is. But we've rehearsed the set to death, so my head is telling me we'll be just fine.'

Their section of the backstage was vast and comparatively luxurious, and an assortment of friends and hangers-on milled around. I eyed up the ice boxes of wine and champagne, and suppressed a snort of laughter when Helen met my gaze, clearly having the same idea.

'He's in here,' Adam knocked on a smaller dressing room door. There was no answer, and the blinds at the perspex window were drawn. I glanced quizzically at Adam and he rolled his eyes. 'He's trying to ignore people,' he muttered, and then louder: 'Don't be a drama queen, Joanna just got here.'

'Jo? She can come in,' Matty's voice could be heard faintly from behind the door.

I pushed it open to find him lying supine, flat out on one of the slightly uncomfortable standard issue backstage sofas, the room darkened. 'You alright? What's with the reclusivity? Have you turned into a diva?' I had wondered, with an element of masochism, if I would bump into the mystery woman over the course of the weekend, but perhaps she wasn't the festival sort - or better, that it wasn't a relationship. Selfishly, I knew which answer I preferred.

He raised his head feebly to squint at me. 'Hardly. I've got a _splitting_ headache. Worst possible timing, and all I can do is nap.'

'Well, you've still got... what, nine hours? That's more than enough time to sleep it off, I'm sure.' I pulled up a chair to the end of the sofa and dumped my sweater over the back of it.

'It had fucking better be,' he groaned. 'Can't stop drinking tea, have to keep getting up to piss every half hour. It's a nightmare.'

'You're headlining Reading. It's meant to be a dream.'

'Don't lecture me now, I've had it from everyone else.'

'I'm just teasing, silly,' I smirked. 'You'll be on cloud nine once you're prancing about. You sure you don't fancy going to get some food, watching a few early bands?'

'Oh god, I'm in no fit state to, I'm sorry... shit, we said we would, didn't we?'

'Don't apologise. I don't mind, honestly. Helen's with me. I'll leave you in peace if you'd prefer.'

'I don't prefer. I'm feeling far from peaceful. Stay here for a bit, yeah?'

I put the travel kettle on and made myself a coffee, and sat and drank it in the dark room beside Matty. I couldn't help but find him slightly comical, swathed in a large black hoodie and clutching his mug of tea like a sick child. And I was pleased he wanted me there, despite his pitiful circumstance. We talked a little, but I mostly picked over the snacks from the rider and tried to make as little noise as possible.

Helen knocked after about an hour, to drag me out to another stage, and peered around the edge of the door. 'Is he alright? Matty?'

'He's sleeping,' I looked up from my phone.

'Trying to,' he grunted.

'Oh, I see.' She didn't look particularly sorry for him. 'Jo, can I steal you now?'

'Time for me to leave you be,' I squeezed his shoulder on my way out as he looked mournfully up at me. 'Get some rest, I'll see you in a little while.'

***

Darting from the side of one stage to another, cadging pints off C-list indie stars and occasionally getting stopped by a fan for a photo, Helen and I were delirious. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed the deep, booming thrum of bass produced by festival speaker stacks that resonated through my bones; I hadn't quite been able to appreciate the sensation in New York, due to certain unnamed factors, and besides, it always felt better on home soil. 

Somewhere between stages I lost Helen, but wasn't concerned since we'd agreed we would inevitably be watching Lewis and the others perform at about eight in one of the tents. In fact, I relished the opportunity to wander around at my own pace, drinking slowly but steadily and letting my ears guide me. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, Strongbow and sweat, that theoretically awful combination that only served to enhance the experience of walking across a dusty festival field.

A small group of about three teenagers approached me as I drifted towards the thunderous sounds emanating from one of the very smallest tents. I was in such a good mood that I greeted their enthusiastic requests for photos more comfortably than usual.

'Joanna, is there an album on the way?'

'Yeah, I've been desperate to hear more! The EP has soundtracked my summer!'

'Watch this space, guys, it won't be too much longer,' I grinned, flipping my sunglasses down and immediately wondering if that made me seem a little too detached and aloof. I compensated with extra conversation. 'Who are you here to see then? Who else are you into? Tell me about your plans.'

It was deeply satisfying to see the glow on their faces as they babbled away about their favourite bands. One girl eyed my pass slung around my neck.

'So if you're not playing, are you still backstage?'

'Most of the time, yes,' I smiled, 'but... are you going to see Mini Mansions too? I was going to go side of stage, but I might actually stay in the pit for this one.'

'Yes! We love them!'

'Can we stay with you? Please?'

'I'd love that,' I winked at the girl who had eyed my triple A pass, and was now blushing beet red. 'I could do with the company.'

For the next hour, although conscious that I was trying to give these kids a good memory of hanging out with an artist they loved - an opportunity I'd have relished in my own adolescence - I also basked in the momentary illusion of semi-normalcy, imagining myself to be seventeen again, befriending strangers and yelling the lyrics to cherished songs under a smoky, dusty canopy. Eventually I had to say my goodbyes, although their eyes lit up again when I said I was off to find Helen, and I told them they had better catch Lewis and co, if they wanted to be clued into the next big thing before the NME caught on.

'Where the hell did you go off to?' Helen asked breathlessly as she located me in the fancy guest toilets behind the Radio 1 Stage.

' _I've_ been getting to know our fans,' I replied smugly and turned to appraise my reflection in the mirror, gathering my hair into a high ponytail and tying it up out of the way.

'Well you've missed an absolute shitshow. Listen,' she grabbed my elbow, and I paused to look at her properly. Her expression was so serious that I stopped preening and felt a chill run down my neck. 'Please, don't panic. But I've overheard something, and it's really, really shitty.'

'What? From whom?' My mind raced - _something's happened to Matty - or the set's cancelled - or he's fucking engaged or something..._

'Dean. He was on the phone, I don't know who to. But it went something like... we were a dead lead... he was trying to work out how to make the contract void... wasting money, etcetera. Jo, it honestly sounds like he's dropping us.'

'Dean - _what_?' I clapped a hand to my mouth in shock. 'Why would he do that? Why the fuck would he _want_ to?'

'I don't know, really. I thought he was on our side. I still can't quite believe it.' She looked pale, like she might be sick. 'Why wouldn't he voice concerns like that to us before making up his mind?'

'Backstabbing piece of shit,' I fumed, 'just because the album is taking longer than we hoped, I bet...'

'Well, we need to cover our backs. I'd try to take over for a bit before we find someone else, but I don't even know what we have lined up these days. Not the particulars, at least.'

'Start using your leads, reach out to your friends,' I pulled out my phone and instinctively started to scroll through my contacts, wondering who I knew who might know someone. 'We're still an attractive prospect, right? And this time, we _can't_ rush into signing a new manager.'

The adrenaline from this revelation was forcing me to try and be practical, but we couldn't do much from a toilet in a field next to the Thames, and a repulsive sense of betrayal lurked in my guts. I pulled Helen in for a hug, more for my benefit than hers, inhaling her expensive perfume and voicing affirmations to reassure myself.

'We'll be alright. We managed pretty well before we ever met him, didn't we?'

'That was before we were booking international tours,' she said grimly, pulling her lipstick from her pocket and turning back to the mirror to reapply it. 'We're going to have to keep schtum about this, for a while at least. Don't tell a soul, alright? Not even Matty. Well, maybe we can tell Ethan, it affects him enough. But nobody else.'

With a click and almost perfect timing, one of the stalls opened, and Eve's face appeared warily from behind the door. 'Hey.'

'Oh, christ,' Helen sighed, replacing the lid on her lipstick roughly and throwing it back in her bag.

'Eve,' I said quickly, 'you heard that, right? Do _not_ tell Lewis, or the others. We're going to have to trust your word here.'

'I wouldn't.' She paused. 'But actually, I met this girl, Kate, at uni... she's a few years older, did a masters in sociology and then ended up leaving halfway through to take a job at an agency.'

'A manager?' Helen narrowed her eyes. 'Is she experienced?

'Pretty sure she is, you know. And she's very professional... I doubt she'd do anything like what I've just heard.'

'Well, let's put a pin in it, yeah?' I threw a warning glance at Helen, who was radiating pure cynicism. 'Thanks Eve, honestly. We can talk about it when we get back to London, perhaps send us this girl's details or something.'

'It's alright,' she replied brightly, moving to leave the trailer. 'I'd better... you know, Lew acts like he's confident, but he's...'

'Bricking it. I can imagine,' I nodded. 'Come on Helen, we promised we'd watch, didn't we? It'll take our minds off the Dean issue for the time being. At least let this evening be an escape.'

We dragged her out and climbed the ramp behind Lewis and the band, ensconcing ourselves comfortably behind the guitar techs to watch the set. I didn't have to look at Helen to know how she felt though; I could imagine she was beating herself up for not realising something sooner. I knew how she hated feeling deceived or being made to look foolish. But we _weren't_ foolish, surely? Dean had done a good job, at first. We weren't to know that his support wouldn't last. And we hadn't even had confirmation that his plans really were to drop us - although at this point, we felt ready to drop _him_ , considering the opinions Helen had witnessed him utter. Either way, the ties would more than likely be severed, and we would have to be self-sufficient again, at least for a short time, until a replacement could be found.

I watched Lewis and Jay's playing carefully to distract myself, trying to work out how they must have come up with some of the more complex patterns between their instruments; I hadn't seen two musicians balance guitar and bass so uniquely before. Both were propulsively rhythmic, both were strikingly melodic, and this was one of the things that made them so addictive to watch and hear.

It was a pleasant feeling, to be proud of friends and their art; in some way, I felt cool by association, and loved the thought that we might be perceived as a gang of bright young things in music, feeling quite determined suddenly to ensure that perception came into being amongst our peers and in the media. At least, I rationalised, if we formed these sorts of alliances, we would all forge our own blueprint together, and I selfishly wouldn't feel quite so lost and adrift in the industry.

My mind drifted to Matty, whom I suspected would be pacing his trailer by now, triple-checking the setlist, probably making his hundredth cup of tea. As soon as Lewis' set was finished, I excused myself to walk back to the main stage early, hoping to catch them before they went on. It was a long trek along the muddy tracks around the perimeter of the grounds, and I was faintly envious of the people in golf buggies that careered past me, mostly in the same direction. 

The sky above was almost totally pitch black, and it was a novelty to see the Milky Way in all its glory, so often obscured in the capital by other, brighter lights. The walk cleared my head more than a drink or raucous live set could, and despite the worries brought about by Helen's news, I felt serene, for a time.

***

I made it with five minutes to spare, which was just as well, since as soon as I reached the enclosure behind the stage, Matty pressed a couple of different passes on me, looking fired up and slightly wild-eyed with adrenaline.

'There you are! I almost forgot, you'll need these to stand side-stage.'

'Thanks,' I snorted with laughter at his radical change. 'Told you you'd be fine.'

'Yeah, yeah... still need the moral support though. I'm so wired I feel like I'm levitating. Where's Helen?'

'Coming soon. Matty-' I grabbed his sleeve as he strode towards the towering scaffold, following the others as they fitted their in-ears and made last-minute checks with the roadies.

'Yeah?'

'Wanted to say - thank you.'

'For what?' His brows furrowed quizzically, and with the full force of his attention trained on me, even at this moment of enormous pressure, I was taken aback and realised I couldn't give a coherent answer.

'Uh - all of this. Go and enjoy yourself, yeah?'

'I hardly need telling,' Matty leaned in and squeezed me in a hug, before spinning back to follow everyone else.

By the time Helen arrived, they were halfway through the first song of the set, and Matty had already crawled face-down across the floor, screaming into the mic and apparently enjoying himself greatly. I was transfixed; the side of the stage was rammed with people, but my view was excellent. The roiling expanse of the crowd surged like a single entity, in a manner that seemed quite terrifying when you considered that only a couple of lines of steel barrier kept them there.

'Fucking hell, I knew they were good, but this...' Helen shouted in my ear, struggling to make herself heard over the thunder of music.

I flung an arm around her shoulder. 'How are you feeling?'

'Been better,' she grimaced. 'This is fairly cathartic though, isn't it?'

It must have been cathartic for Matty too. Over the next two hours I became exhausted just watching him. Once he was given an audience, and an opportunity to entertain, I had a hard time reconciling the man I knew with the force of nature onstage. Not that I hadn't guessed him capable of it, but I was impressed in such a way that there would be no possibility of me taking our friendship for granted. Sometimes I forgot an individual could wield so much power.

I was self-conscious as I looked on, even though I knew nobody was taking any notice of me. If anything, I felt like I was judging myself, as once again, my subconscious growled at me that I had no place admiring him as much as I did. I had my chance, hadn't I? And I blew it, which in all likelihood was for the best. 

Helen's words in New York, the ones that sounded so harsh at the time, seemed perfectly practical now as they echoed in my mind - _distract yourself with someone else - he's not a viable option for you any more - like chasing a ghost._ But as he addressed the crowd, so earnest and hopeful and delirious, I felt a surge of affection that would not be quelled by this logic, a pride that boiled within me like the frantic crowd. I understood the adoring way they gazed up at him, even if I knew their vision of him was barely a fragment of the real man. He let them tap into the best part of himself.

***

'Remind me why you want a greyhound, specifically?' Jay quizzed me as we peered through the bars of each cage. I had dragged him along with me to choose a dog, figuring that I could justify it now I was theoretically in my mid-twenties, and could claim to be a semi-responsible adult. Since Helen was otherwise preoccupied (her and Leon were back on), I had recruited Jay for the task of offering a second opinion.

'They're so laid back, once they've had a short walk... and they curl up really small, _and_ don't mind my small flat. And look,' I stopped in front of one, particularly lanky dog with an ash grey coat. 'They have such wise faces, don't they?'

'I guess so,' Jay stooped down to inspect it more closely. 'This one's enormous. You could saddle him.'

We asked to take the lanky dog for a walk, and wandered through Battersea Park with him on a short lead. It didn't pull at all, despite being relatively young, and kept swivelling its head to gaze up at me anxiously with very large, dolorous eyes.

'I hope this weather holds out,' Jay commented, squinting up at the late summer sun. 'Lewis is badgering me to have a barbeque on Friday, do you want to come? It's my place, in Shadwell.'

I blinked at him for a moment. 'Sure. I'm around. I'll see if Helen is too.'

'Yeah, bring her along. She's a scream.'

The dog walked closer to me, so that it rubbed against my legs, and I stopped walking to stroke its bony spine and scratch it between the ears. I watched Jay carefully as he spoke. He was quite handsome, in a teen heartthrob kind of way, although he didn't know it as much as Robin used to, and therefore had none of Robin's self-satisfaction. We had an easy friendship and his invite seemed entirely innocent, but I found myself wondering if I should be more open-minded. It would certainly be easier to distract myself from whatever Matty was getting up to if I could say that I was otherwise occupied. Then I felt bad for thinking in this manner, and realised if anyone was starting to have an agenda, it might be me.

'Do you think you'll need it, for the company?' _That's right, Jay,_ I thought, _drive the point home_.

'I've just always wanted one and it feels like the right time. I think this lad quite likes me.' The rescue centre had given him the name Rolo, and although I was probably getting ahead of myself, I wanted to call him something more dignified. Knowing me, he would probably end up with a ridiculous human name, like Frank, and then he would be too dignified, if that was even possible.

It was early September, and we were getting ready to tour again - this time, Europe, with our new manager Kate and a whole host of new material. By rights, I should have felt a great deal of trepidation and anxiety about the whole thing, but I was actually feeling very buoyant and optimistic; rehearsals were going well, the songs Helen and I had worked on in Maida Vale were getting mastered and we suddenly felt a much greater sense of autonomy. We hoped for a big headline show in London in the New Year, and bigger festival slots in the summer following - 2020 would be our year to _break_ , in the industry sense.

I remembered the conversation I had had with Matty by the pool in Notting Hill, and felt faintly amused by my claim of 'low expectations, less disappointment'. I didn't blame my past self for thinking in this way; she was more wary and embarrassed to appear ambitious. It was a relief now, to be able to say with total conviction that I expected to be playing Glastonbury. Lewis was slightly more reticent. He had told me, one afternoon Helen and I had gone over to his and Eve's flat, that he was deeply uncomfortable with some of the scrutiny that seemed to be a prerequisite of 'making it'. I had laughed at him at the time, which he didn't take well, at which point I capitulated and asked how on earth he had landed himself in a job that required a crowd of hundreds, even thousands, to stare directly at him as he bared his creative soul.

'It's a mask, isn't it? That's the whole point of performance. On the stage, it's just an act, a projection. Don't you feel like you're putting on a persona of sorts when you're out there?'

His words hit home. This was the issue I had pulled apart in front of a dusty motel mirror in Richmond, VA. We came to the conclusion that it depended on how well you handled social media and the minefield of an interview - just because people ask for certain information, I told him, doesn't mean they can dig it out of you if you're certain you don't want to give it away.

For months, I had been receiving odd messages, comments, seeing speculative articles and snide assumptions made about my personal life, and the extent to which it overlapped with Matty's. The weirdest thing was a picture someone had covertly taken in Maida Vale, a terribly unflattering candid picture of me sipping from a Coke can in the Italian deli, opposite Matty as he gazed dreamily out the window with half a sandwich in his hand, looking typically angelic. Even then, that wasn't bothering me the way it might have done months ago, since it was such a norm now. 

At this point, I wasn't even flustered at the idea that people would think Helen and I were hitching a ride. I mean, we were in some way, what with all those free studio hours, the complementary use of all that equipment and the benefit of Matty and George's judicious ears. But I knew that when the songs were finally released, they would be unmistakably mine and Helen's, and nobody would be able to claim that our success was the result of piggybacking.

Jay and I returned Rolo to the centre after another half hour. There was no possibility of taking him home that day, but I was sad to leave him there in his cage. He looked quite morose as they locked it again, and I bent down so that he could sniff my hand through the bars. 'I'll be back for you, boy,' I whispered. I knew I would.  
  


**END OF PART TWO.**


	13. Berlin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's on tour at the same time, but some spirits are higher than others.

_(Ulrika Spacek - Ultra Vivid)_

_I Think There's Something You Should Know_

** PART THREE. **

Helen loved Paris, but I adored Berlin. I told her I thought this said something about our sensibilities, to which she replied I was talking nonsense and obviously didn't appreciate Romanticism.

We had a day off every two or three gigs since deciding with Kate that we would prefer to leave earlier, sacrifice an evening out, and instead arrive in each city with sufficient time to walk around and play the shameless tourists. I loved gigging in Europe, testing out my pathetic phrasebook French or Italian on our poor unsuspecting fans, of which there were a few in each city alongside the musos, the hipsters and the kids out for a decent Wednesday night. They were kind with us though, correcting my terrible grammar and excitedly engaging in tentative conversation. We didn't sell out many venues, only Paris, Amsterdam and Milan, but they were the best ones to sell out, the most iconic. I figured I could survive seeing some empty space in Madrid if the enthusiasm was there, which it usually was in spades.

Helen experimented with her stage wardrobe every night, trying out things in a low stakes environment that she wouldn't have dared to back home. In Amsterdam, she bought a couture piece off a student designer, and we all sat around in the green room of Melkweg getting deeply stoned before playing a set that thrummed with chaotic energy. The weed didn't damage our performance - far from it in fact. The performance was instinctive, the rhythms were practically physical. I watched Helen closely with my lips pressed to the mic, weaving back and forth, turning to Ethan and sharing the goggle-eyed expression of euphoria on our faces.

That night we stayed in a positively ancient hotel where Kate had bagged a deal for the room, a classic Dutch townhouse with perilously narrow staircases and floorboards. After navigating our way up to our rooms, I sat next to Helen on her bed, sipping greedily on the bottle of wine that we had brought back from the green room as we assessed our current situation.

'This is our best tour so far, easily,' I grinned at her, giddy on the night's success. 'And not even in terms of the shows, I just feel...'

'You're more confident. We both are. I know I don't show it much, but I get jittery like you sometimes,' she admitted. 'What do you think changed that?'

'Time, I suppose. And being accustomed to it. The novelty of new experiences is great but I think it always comes with insecurity. I feel secure now, in comparison.'

'Good...' she mused, 'I wish I did.'

'What?' I blinked, turning my neck to look at her straight on. 'Why? Do you feel insecure onstage?'

'No, not really. But sometimes I talk to the guys,' - referencing Lewis and Jay, and possibly Leon - 'and I feel the imposter syndrome creeping back.' She paused. 'Do you ever second-guess why we get attention? Do you ever wonder if it's mainly because we're objectively cute girls?'

I chewed my lip as I thought my response over, slightly surprised to hear these words from Helen. 'You know what? I do wonder that - or at least I did, and then I realised I didn't care too much either way. We know our music deserves the hype,' I smirked. 'So whatever people's personal reasons are for supporting us or giving us a platform, we're able to just snatch that opportunity and run with it anyway. The imposter syndrome can be twisted into an advantage, and besides, you're one of the best musicians I know. Lewis might think he's all that but you're a better guitarist. Honest.'

'Maybe just... say that in his vicinity so I can see the look of acceptance on his face,' she snorted. I squeezed her arm.

'Can't believe we're here sometimes.'

'I know,' she replied quietly. 'Blows my mind a bit when I think about what we were doing three, four years ago.'

'Do you ever miss uni?'

'I did at first, when it seemed like a better time. I fucking hate office jobs.' She was referencing her day job from the time we were still knackering ourselves to get gigs, a dreary admin thing that forced her to wear a pencil skirt, an item she'd sworn off ever since. I got off slightly better, landing a job assisting a researcher in the history department I'd just graduated from - also slightly dreary, but at least I could wear whatever I wanted in the British Library reading rooms. We both managed to quit just a couple of months before Dean signed on as our manager, and moulded our amateur operation into something resembling London's new hype band. 'I reckon you liked history more than I liked PPE though.'

'It's funny... I don't even know if I've started paying student loans back. That doesn't really factor into our lives any more, does it?'

Helen agreed, it seemed incongruous. My phone lit up on the desk on the other side of the room, vibrating insistently, and I got up to take a look, embarrassed at the tiny surge of adrenaline that made me slightly light-headed.

'Hey,' I answered warmly. 'You alright? It's pretty late.' I made eye contact with Helen who mouthed _Matty?_ and I nodded.

'Jo, how was your show? You're in Holland, right?' His voice was thick with fatigue, in a way that suggested he'd been overusing it. He was in Australia now, I knew, but I'd forgotten the city; the connection was surprisingly clear considering our distance.

'Yeah, Amsterdam. I like the Dutch. They give a good reception.' I grabbed the chair in front of the dressing table and sat facing Helen, who watched absent-mindedly as I talked into the phone, taking little swigs of wine from the bottle every now and then. 'How are they treating you down under?'

'Well enough. It's not too hot, thank god, but I can't shake off the jet lag.'

'Hang on, isn't it like... six in the morning? Matty, have you slept at all?'

'On and off. That's why I called, when I worked out the time difference,' he said simply, as if this explained everything.

I laughed uncertainly. 'What should I do, sing you to sleep or something?'

'I just wanted to see how you were. I'd rather hear your voice than keep tossing and turning.'

Playing a show almost every night created a brain buzz that was difficult to quiet, I knew. 'That's alright. I'm glad you called, it's good to hear from you.' I knew my smile was filtering through my voice. My gaze flickered up to meet Helen's. I jerked my head towards the door, mouthing ' _Night_ ,' and she nodded in understanding.

Once back in my own room, I shut the door carefully with a click and curled up on my own bed. 'Just went back to my room, there's no-one else here now.'

'You'd like it out here, you know,' Matty rambled. 'It would be fun if you were here, a bit less... monotonous. If you were offered a support slot, are you sure you wouldn't take it?' He sounded hopeful.

'Probably better to keep our careers separate, remember?' I reminded him.

'Yeah, yeah, I know.' He paused, and I heard him sigh on the end of the line. There was quite clearly a lot left unsaid, and even though the silence was companionable, my chest hurt with the pressure of everything I repressed. _I miss you. I wish you were closer._ He had called up with no apparent purpose, and our conversation was directionless, but comforting just for the connection it provided, beamed up and down through the atmosphere by some distant satellite.

'What's your hotel room like? Describe it to me. I bet you've got some cushy place.'

'Beige... so fucking beige. Wall art is a solid seven out of ten, not as bad as your average Travelodge curation. Bed is annoyingly comfy because no matter how much I feel like I'm sinking into it, my eyes just won't stay closed. Fancy lights under the mirror in the bathroom.'

'Mini bar?'

'Yeah, nothing that I've touched though. Coffee, some bougie hot chocolate.'

'Make the hot chocolate. Even if you don't sleep, it's like, I don't know... a hug from the inside.'

'That turn of phrase makes my stomach churn a bit,' Matty snorted, a gentle laugh lightening his despondent tone. 'But okay.' A creak of bed springs echoed down the phone as he got up, followed by rushing water. 'Boiling the kettle. I'm just gonna narrate this shit unless you have anything better to do.'

'Nothing.' I lay horizontal, the phone nestled between my ear and the pillow, and stared out of the window, the curtains flung open. The Amsterdam sky was a rich, inky blue, a few stars visible despite the light pollution. This was one of those rare moments, I knew, when everything and every part of me was at peace.

***

Helen's abrupt knock on my door roused me the next morning, the rude awakening reinforced by her entrance after barely bothering to wait for an answer.

'Rise and shine, honey bun. We're going straight to Berlin. It's a long trek.' She whistled under her breath. 'Well, someone forgot to get changed...'

I pushed myself upright with a groan, realising I was still on top of the sheets and not underneath them. 'Fuck... not even pyjamas?'

'Your phone is _imprinted_ into your cheek. Cute. Why doesn't he just Facetime? At least then you can see when the other person's dropping off.'

'Shit.' My phone was dead, and I couldn't remember the end of mine and Matty's conversation. I plugged it in to charge and went to the ensuite to freshen up, whilst Helen followed me.

'Has he been in contact a lot then?'

'A fair bit,' I mumbled, bending over the sink and concentrating on lathering up my face to get off any residual grime from last night.

'More than usual then.' She made a pretence of being nosy, pulling products out of my wash bag and trying them on the back of your hand. It was times like this she would say something disarmingly incisive. 'Would you say you're best mates?'

I flushed, even though it was only Helen asking. 'He's never called me that, but I'd be flattered if we were.'

'Should be the other way round, Jo. He should be flattered _you're_ his best mate. He certainly treats you as such.' She cocked her head sideways, studying my reflection in the mirror as I pulled a brush through my hair. 'Is it entirely platonic?'

'Now it is, yes. That's the way it started, and it worked well back then,' I shrugged.

Her eyebrows raised, and stayed there. 'Would you still go there?'

I paused, taking a deep breath. Oh what the hell, Helen wouldn't rat me out. We told each other practically everything. 'Yes and no. Yes as in I might want to, but no, logic and experience tells me it's a terrible idea.'

She grinned devilishly, and true: it was faintly comical. 'God, I don't envy you.'

The drive to Berlin seemed to last forever, but the tour bus we shared with the support band had enough room to lie horizontal. It had been an extravagant hire, perhaps, since we weren't staying in it overnight, but once we split the costs and worked out the tour would mean we broke even, it seemed to be worth it in the long run - no aching necks, plus all the promo the tour itself would get us. I told Kate we didn't mind. We'd already lugged our equipment all over Britain on trains and in the cramped backseats of cars in recent years. This was a deal I was willing to strike.

Once my phone was powered up again, a couple of messages came through the ether.

_you fell asleep on me HA_

_don't worry though! and the hot chocolate helped, thanks_

_have a blast in germany x_

I thought wistfully about how nice it would be to actually fall asleep on him. The warm skin of his shoulder, my head cradled there, and when I glanced up, his perfect, pensive face and the sweet creasing of his eyes in a smile. It felt ludicrous to reminisce like this, but the memory was still _so_ vivid. I hadn't allowed these thoughts in quite a while, and entertaining them felt dangerous, though slightly less so when we were on opposite sides of the planet. It was so easy to play along in the studio, I was a good actor there. But on tour, in my own head, there was no point faking it to myself.

After a lunch stop and a couple of smoke breaks (we'd picked up some excellent weed after last night's show), we reached Berlin in the late afternoon, though there were still a few hours of sun left in the day. Our hotel there wasn't quite as classy, but the bed was still comfortable, and there was a lavish Chinese restaurant just across the road, so we all spent the evening there, raucously letting off steam after the cramped journey, though I felt slightly bad for our fellow diners trying to have a peaceful evening meal in the company of shameless tourists.

I didn't get a call that night, but I still sat up late in bed scrolling aimlessly on my phone. I sent Matty a link to a surreal documentary on hackers from the nineties.

_for your insomnia_

_i'm sure an insomnia cure is meant to be boring to lull me to sleep??_

_oh i see..._

_would you rather watch something about Victorian sewage systems then_

_point taken, no complaints_

_i actually got four hours last night, but i'll try to drop off on the plane to Melb_

_managed to get some time off today..._

After this came a barrage of pictures that seemed to have been taken inside a gallery, and then a five second clip of Matty fake snoring into his pillow. 'Idiot,' I smiled to myself. A text came through from Helen, even though she was only in the next room.

_up bright and early tomorrow yeah??? i want to find white eyeliner_

_why the fuck do you want that_

_it makes your eyes pop in photos_

_we have a shoot remember_

I groaned internally; I'd forgotten about it. A German music publication wanted us in a studio for the full works, which I knew I should be grateful for, since the photos that kept getting reused were Nia's shots for Noisey, a few from our festival sets, and the slightly wild-eyed NME shot from Heaven. I didn't like the latter, half out of vanity and half because of the memories it dredged up. At least this time Helen and I were together, and able to bounce off each other's energy.

Berlin, and the venue, thrummed with a dark, excitable potential. I didn't mind that this one wasn't sold out, since it was flattering to be booked to play such a big room in the first place. Our agent had done extremely well.

Matty seemed bored. Bar the couple of hours he was onstage or soundchecking, he was always online, sending me videos, voice notes, engaging me in a back and forth. I felt bad being anti-social, but Helen only wiggled her eyebrows at me and went off to drink with Ethan and Kate. Normally I might have left the messages until last thing in the evening to respond, but something told me now was not the time to play casual.

My suspicions were confirmed when I got back to the hotel, my phone ringing shrilly as I was in the middle of taking my makeup off. I kept it on speakerphone as I rinsed my face in the sink.

'Hello?'

'Jo. Can I... I'm sorry, is this a good time?' His voice cracked slightly, and something in my chest dropped.

'Of course - Matty, what's up?'

'I don't even - can't even put it into words - fuck. This sounds dumb as _shit._ '

'Stop,' I said firmly, though it was a miracle the shakes didn't come through in my voice. I pressed a towel to my face and brought the phone up to my ear. 'It doesn't. Nothing you've said to me has ever been dumb. I'm listening.'

'It's just... I'm sorry, I haven't slept and I'm going stir crazy. I can't deal with this. I feel like such a fucking conman.'

'Why?'

'They all stare up at me, night after night, like I'm Jesus or something, and it's pure - I know it is, I don't blame them - but I'm not _enough_ , I can't be some fucking... leader or some shit. I can't tell people how to think, I'm not a politician or a priest or whatever.'

'I know.' I didn't though, not really. I couldn't without facing ten thousand people on a regular basis. And he knew that too, but still, I hoped it was a comfort to hear.

'And they see the best bits of me, you know? I give only the best version of myself, and claim that it's honesty. And then what I'm left with, when I'm on my own, is the gruesome, sad shit, the complete opposite of anything admirable. It weighs heavier because it's private, because it has to be.'

 _Think, Jo, what to say._ 'Matty... are you in your room?'

'No, I'm just... walking. I don't know where I am, but it's quiet. I can't stand it, actually.'

Now this I did know - the violent discrepancy between the intoxicating, deafening high of performing and the hollow isolation of a hotel room. 'Okay - it's alright, I'm here. Well... as much as I can be.' I couldn't think of anything more useful to say apart from affirming my presence.

'Thank you,' he sighed, his own voice wobbling. I was taken aback at the intensity of my concern. 'It's more than you realise, you know. There isn't anyone else I can speak to, right now.'

'If I was there with you, we'd go and find some greasy late night burger place,' I rambled, talking instinctively.. 'And we'd talk about Flying Nun records, and our teenage years, and how weird some teachers were, and get nostalgic over old technology and first instruments.'

'We would,' he breathed. It seemed to be working.

'And then we'd sit on a fucking... bench by the harbour, and think about how cultural institutions get disregarded by economic ones...'

'Yes, lots of politics to stress me out.' He was chuckling now though, soft little laughs echoing down the line from thousands of miles away. 'It's a dumb postcard sentiment, I know, but honestly I do wish you were here.'

'So do I.' I smiled to myself giddily, collapsing backwards onto the bed. 'I know that I can't quite imagine what it's like, sometimes. But I guess it could help to remember that you've been doing it for so long? And coped so well. Sometimes to be selfish and take care of yourself, distracting yourself is totally justified.'

'Coped? I never coped. Not really. You know... I've told you.'

'But you're still here,' I said, more fiercely than I intended. 'That's a win, as far as I'm concerned. If you _really_ hadn't coped, you wouldn't be on tour right now. Just think, I might never have met you.'

'Perish the thought.' He still sounded uncertain, but steadier than before.

'And when you talk about the gruesome, sad shit, that's not enough to make me drop you. Or anyone who really knows you, for that matter. You're not split down the middle. You're a whole person who does incredible things and feels awful emotions sometimes.' That sounded blunter than I intended, and I tried to elaborate. 'That is, it's not wrong or deceitful to feel that way. It just sucks for you, and bit by bit the balance will be struck, with time and care and all that.'

There was a pause before Matty spoke. 'That's it, really. In a nutshell. God, I need more therapy.'

I suppressed a small laugh. 'Yeah, don't rely on this amateur. I'm sure I don't have the first idea what I'm talking about.'

'Oh, but you do. You know me, you know how I work. That's enough, even before you factor in your crazy life right now, which has got to help you understand too.'

'I don't underestimate how hard it must be. I don't desire that same level of, like... achievement, exposure, whatever. Nobody can escape that unscathed but you're doing better than most. You're still an authentic person.'

Matty took a deep breath; I heard his deep inhale and exhale from far away. 'The air smells good here. I hadn't noticed.'

'Lucky. Smells like shit on this street. Like a Berghain toilet.'

'I've never been.'

'We'll have to go sometime. You'd get in, you freak.'

I hugged myself tightly, listening to German sirens and screeching cats and the tinny but distinct intonation of Matty's voice in my ear.

'Fuck, you must be tired.'

'I'm alright. I feel sorry for your phone bill.'

'It's worth it for the peace of mind. Any final tips?'

'Talk radio, podcasts, any of that stuff...'

We signed off reluctantly when I remembered I had to be up at six for our journey to Hamburg. Ironically, I was the one who couldn't sleep now, instead lying flat on my back watching a spider slowly make its way across the low ceiling, extending its spindly legs in exploration.

Everyone liked to feel needed, that was a given. But the warm glow I received after Matty's call tore my heart and my logic in different directions, and not for the first time. He had said he felt there was nobody else he could speak to... what did that make me, to him? This also attested to the possibility that he was single again, or otherwise not involved in anything serious. I felt singled out, and special, and I _liked_ it. I shouldn't be so glad. I knew underneath everything why I was so glad.

The next morning, I woke to find a message that made me feel like a balloon was slowly inflating behind my ribcage.

_come out to the country in the autumn? stay with us at the studio there. it'll be quality time - like a holiday!!_

_only if i can bring my dog_

_DEAL._


	14. The Country.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matty and Joanna escape for a bucolic working holiday at the studio, and the spectacular surroundings help elicit a little more emotional honesty.

_(Marlon Williams & Aldous Harding - Nobody Gets What They Want Anymore)_

_(Phoebe Bridgers - You Missed My Heart)_

_(Joni Mitchell - Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire)_

George arranged to pick me up from Streatham; Matty had tried to insist on coming to fetch me, but he had reached the studio a couple of days earlier, and George would pass by my place on his way, so the logic was hard to refute. I sat waiting in the living room, my bag packed, whilst Helen brooded over her breakfast at the table. Rolo lay a few feet away with his dark, sad eyes fixed on me, still clingy ever since I picked him up in Battersea, though I didn't mind. I tried to think of the dignified name that I'd silently promised to both the dog and to myself, but Rolo was beginning to stick, unfortunately.

'Does Kate know?'

'Yes.'

'Does she know about your history?'

'I don't think so... not the full extent of it. She's not stupid though, she's seen the dumb articles.' And had the tact not to grill me about them, thankfully.

'What about that other girl he was seeing?'

'God, um...' I fidgeted with the zip on my case. 'He never mentioned her. I didn't see anyone like that at Reading. It's like she just... came and went.'

Primly stirring sugar into her coffee, Helen pulled her feet up onto the chair like a kid and turned to face me. 'I hope you have a nice time. Honest, I do. I'll be bored here, I think.'

'Call Leon or something.'

'I'm done with him.'

I blanched at her words. 'What? _When?_ '

'There's been no bust-up or anything, you didn't miss any drama. I just told him over the phone last night, that it wasn't working. He didn't even object, he just wished me good luck with my life.'

'Holy shit. I always thought he was a bit of a, um...'

'A slimeball. Yeah.' She shrugged despondently. 'I might stay at Eve's for a bit.'

'You wouldn't like it anyway,' I teased. 'Too much mud. We were desperate to leave the West Country, remember?'

'Vividly.'

A loud knock came at the door, and she put her mug down reluctantly. 'Better get going then.'

I clasped Helen in a tight hug, and clipped Rolo's lead onto his collar. It was a fleeting goodbye, because I didn't want to keep George waiting, though I took a few seconds to gawp at the gleaming Jaguar E-type that had pulled up on the kerb.

'God, I thought Matty was the one into cars.'

'He sold his for that electric one. _Some_ of us still enjoy collector's items.' He grinned, stuffing my duffel bag into the boot.

'Yes, but this is positively a Bond car.'

'Look, there are some perks you don't complain about. Who's this then?'

Rolo ended up on the back seat, so that every now and then I'd get a tentative poke in the elbow from his wet, black nose and he'd get a treat in return for staying calm. George was good company; he had a dry sense of humour, which I enjoyed, and a tendency to notice the details in things on the long drive, like weird buildings and funny number plates. He wasn't as hyperactive as Matty - in contrast, he radiated a sort of zen. I imagined he was implacable in the face of disaster.

'How is he?' There was no need to be specific when I asked.

'Yeah, not too bad. Better now than on tour. Being in the studio is grounding, for all of us really.'

'Good.' I exhaled steadily, gazing out the window as the motorway rushed past. I considered mentioning the long-distance phone call in Berlin, but decided against it; something about the exchange had felt like a privilege that was not to be divulged.

After two hours of driving, we reached the house, nestled along a private road. The gravel crunched as George pulled right up to the front door, and I paused for a moment as I opened the car door, staring at the large, low building. It had been extended on one side, and through some bifold glass doors I could see the home studio, sprawling in the way that the countryside allowed. Apart from the bustle of unpacking the car, the only sounds were the gentle warbling of pigeons and the sweeping rustle of the wind in the trees. I was distinctly reminded of the bucolic scenery from the strange arthouse film at St Martins.

'Oh my god, he's going to _kill_ me.' Matty gasped, dragging my attention back to the moment. He rushed forward from the front door and crouched down in front of Rolo, rubbing the dog's ears with a dopey expression on his face. I grinned reflexively, and he bounced to his feet again, holding his arms out for a hug.

'This place is incredible.' My words came out muffled as I buried my nose in the soft, worn jersey of his sweater. He held me for a beat longer than I expected; a jolt of something unnameable tightened my chest and I felt an inexplicable surge of emotion.

'I know!' Matty turned to survey the place just as I had moments ago. His eyes were bright and clear, his ever-growing hair lifting in the breeze. I didn't think I'd ever seen him so utterly relaxed before. It suited him, and made him look even younger. 'I'll show you which room to dump your stuff in, and then we'll have some dinner.'

Up a short flight of stairs, he showed me to a cosy room, warmed by the sunlight that streamed through a Velux window set into the angled roof. 'I'm quite envious you've got this one now actually, the view is the best in the house.' He lifted the handle of the window's mechanism and pushed upwards, so the fresh air could stream in; I peered out and my sharp intake of breath was quite obvious at the sight in front of me - the rolling Cotswold hills laid bare, dotted intermittently with other houses in the distance, and swathes of woodland.

'Thank you,' I sighed, a feeling of intense contentment settling over me. 'I needed this.' Out on the lawn, Rolo played with two other dogs, racing them in circles as the laughter of onlookers echoed gaily from the back door. I stole a glance at Matty, who was squinting slightly as the early autumn sun bathed his face. 'What were you doing for the past few days?'

'Oh, loads. I'll show you. Come on.' His hand closed gently around my wrist momentarily, encouraging me away from the window.

That first evening, when we went to sleep, I said goodnight and climbed upstairs before him; I couldn't drop off, though, until I heard his footsteps an hour or two afterwards, going to his own room. It was like being on a different planet. The past few months fell away, my memory, my heart wiped clean. It would be the purest time, for a while.

***

'You're fucking weak, mate,' George laughed.

Matty bit his lower lip in effort, and I was trying not to show it, but I felt like my shoulder would give way any second. It was George's idea to arm wrestle after dinner, mostly because he knew he would absolutely smoke everyone. It turned out that Matty and I were pretty well matched though. 'All that martial arts training, and for what?'

The back of my hand hit the coffee table with a thump - I'd given way, I was laughing too hard. Matty whooped and threw his hands up in triumph. 'For ten seconds of a mild sense of achievement. I won't lord it over you though, I promise.'

I turned to George and frowned. 'I smell burning, don't you?'

'Fucking _hell_.' Matty clambered to his feet and rushed out of the room, almost slipping on the hardwood floor in his socks. He reappeared a few moments later, unimpressed. 'Barely golden. It still needs another fifteen minutes, at least. Wankers.'

'I'm so hungry, god.' I lay back on the sofa and closed my eyes. George returned to his book. I felt a pair of hands on my ankles, tipping my legs off the end of the sofa as Matty sat down in their place.

'My lasagne is legendary.'

'You only started making it last week,' George quipped without missing a beat.

'As I was saying. Gordon Ramsay could never.'

I lifted my feet back up, bending my knees, but Matty pulled them over his lap so I could stretch out fully. It was becoming a norm between us, this tactility, and it wouldn't have been out of place with one of my female friends. But something about the willingness to touch and be touched harked back to our sexual exploits - he knew my boundaries, and what felt good. Neither of us were squeamish or awkward about it. There was an innocent sort of understanding between us.

That afternoon, we found boxes of temporary colours underneath the sink, and I asked for red, a cartoonish, letterbox hue. My head dangled over the bathtub, and I shrieked as suds trickled into my eyes; the mat was already stained with orange blotches.

'You know what, I reckon if you shaved your head, you'd still look great. I think you've got a normal shaped head, no lumps or bumps.'

'Oh, well, what a bloody relief that is,' I mumbled, my face pressed against the rim of the bathtub. 'Are you almost finished?'

'Almost... you like head massages? I'll give you one if you give me one.'

'Go on. I've never had one before.' I lied - I got them from my hairdresser, but wanted him to think he was doing something groundbreaking for me. 'Use conditioner.'

'This stuff?'

'No, that's shower gel. _Conditioner_.'

'Ah, got it. Right.' Matty's fingers worked at my scalp, kneading small circles around the backs of my ears and my hairline near my neck. I was like putty in his hands, relaxing against the tub.

'Fuck, you're really good at that.' It came out half like a groan, and I instantly felt awkward about it, which he thankfully didn't seem to register.

'You've got a lot to live up to then.'

He rinsed my hair through one last time, and bundled it up in a towel; I went to the mirror and let the damp strands drop down, still darker than their final vivid red. 'Oh my god, I look like a cartoon character.'

'Maybe, but like... in a cute, my-first-crush kind of way. You know, Kim Possible.'

'Great.' I grinned. 'Does that mean I can kick ass too?'

Matty grabbed my wrists and made me do a muscle pose in the mirror, resting his chin on the top of my head. 'Looks like it, yeah.'

Such spontaneous, dumb ideas made me feel like a student in halls again, and it reinforced the unusual luxury of being able to bask in each other's company for days on end. It was like one, long sleepover that never ended, minus any terrible errors of judgement; it helped that there were other adults around, George and Adam and a resident sound engineer.

We got stoned, a lot. Writing and recording was sober, but as soon as the momentum slowed and other music was put on the stereo, out came the rolling papers and the large bag of weed Matty brought from London. Movie marathons would begin, or ambitious recipes initiated; sometimes we wandered into the woods for a walk, and if the weather was decent, we stopped and smoked a bit more under a massive yew tree. We had our favourite route, one that ran adjacent to a farm next door, and some extremely comical alpacas would stare from a wary distance, their necks standing up straight and ostrich-like.

To laugh aloud was a delicious feeling, out in the open. The breeze snatched loud sounds and carried them away some days, or on others, the air was so still that every crackle of leaves and scratching of squirrels could be heard. About five days into my visit, I brought a tiny portable recorder with me, and recorded all sorts of ambient noises that I thought I might manipulate, amplifying them in some way and giving them the tingling reverberations of a tropical hothouse.

Matty watched me as I perched on one end of a fallen tree as stilly as possible. The air was heavy with humidity, but it was cool in the spot we were in, deeply shaded by the canopy of trees and nestled in the natural slope of the hillside. His hands were plunged into the front pocket of his hoodie, and although I knew he was comfortable, he still looked like an angsty teenager dragged out on a country walk by their suburban family. 'Things like this really defy people's assumptions that electronic sounds and nature are in opposition to each other, don't they?'

'They do. Though... do people still hold that assumption, really? What about _The King of Limbs_?'

'Well, yeah. But that's for musos, more often than not.'

'Don't let Thom Yorke hear you say that.'

'Does he consider himself a man of the people?'

'Probably not. Do you?'

He let out a humourless laugh. 'Whether I do or not is barely relevant. It's how the music is received, I reckon. My intentions, as good as they might be, fade with people's interpretations as they listen.'

'That's a scary thought.'

'I accepted it a while ago. It's still better than some of the crap I say without thinking. At least the music is more considered... I don't feel so bad if someone takes that out of context. I think it stands up on its own.'

I switched off the recorder with a click. 'I'll edit that conversation out,' I grinned.

'Shit, I forgot. Sorry.'

'It's alright, I got everything I needed.' I stepped carefully through the loose leaves towards him. 'Stay still. There's a spider...'

Matty froze as I intercepted it, halfway between his shoulder and the neckline of his hoodie. It was large, the size of a fifty pence piece, but the kind with a tiny body and long spindly legs. I flicked the spider away, but before I stepped back again, he lifted a hand to gently comb through the ends of my hair with his fingers. 'It's such a good colour on you.'

'Mm. No greys,' I teased.

'I don't care,' he declared. I believed him, too. For someone who looked so good twenty-four-seven, he gave infuriatingly little attention to how he presented himself, outside of his clothes, which he prized.

We picked our way through the woods and back towards the house, just as the heavens opened up and a heavy shower of rain began to fall. Swearing and laughing, we dashed through the double doors before a clap of thunder erupted across the sky, and Adam blinked at us from behind his laptop, guitar in his lap.

'Not even going to ask.'

'You can,' I pulled the recorder from my bag. 'Reckon I can twist this into something?'

He pulled his headphones from the laptop and plugged them in. 'Definitely. Sample it. George has an old SP-404 around somewhere... just use that, he won't mind.'

'Pretty sure that was mine, actually,' Matty interjected. 'First paycheck from touring went on it.'

I retreated to the front lounge that had been graciously offered to me for the stay, whilst Matty hunted down George to build on a demo from the day before. It was times like these that I tried to stay out of their way, conscious of being an elephant in the room and obstructing their process. When I came back to the room to fetch my jumper, I confessed as much to Adam, which seemed to amuse him.

'Not at all, to speak for myself. But normally that one,' - he jerked his head in the direction of the room above us, from which weird noises emanated - 'is pretty secretive about the whole thing. Not to us, of course, but he gets in a funny state of mind once he's on a roll.'

I thought of Matty's slightly despondent mood earlier that day, and agreed. 'He does seem to.'

'No, not... now it's not quite like that. I mean, yes, he can be difficult. But this is a far cry from how he usually is. He hasn't retreated into himself in the same way.'

My eyes widened. 'Oh. I see.'

'And the only change in the pattern is you.' He grinned, adjusting the guitar's strap on his shoulder. I was at a loss for words, still thinking through the implied meaning, but Adam took pity on me. 'Can you grab that acoustic guitar for me?'

'This?' I lifted it from it's stand a few metres behind us, and held it out.

'Yeah. For you to play. I'm trying to figure out what to play over the top of this track, it needs to be pretty minimalistic. These chords, here...' He played an arrangement of four bars and I repeated, easing into the rhythm. 'Perfect.'

We played like that for almost half an hour, until the sounds from the floor above stopped, and Matty's voice echoed down the hall. 'That's my _song_.' He appeared in the doorway moments later, watching us appreciatively. 'Sounds good when someone else plays it, fuck. Ross is coming down in a few days, he'll lay bass down for it then.'

He followed me back to the lounge, boundlessly curious about what I was working on. He always wanted to hear; I wondered briefly how he'd react if I told him no, but really, that was never going to happen. I wasn't cagey about my ideas, and even if I had been, he was the gentlest of critics, framing any suggestions excitedly. When I joked about giving him a credit, he baulked.

'Oh, god. No need. Honestly.' Matty turned himself to face me in the swivel chair with his feet. 'Unless you want to, uh... if it's helpful. But that would be the only reason.'

'Yeah, that's not what I want.' I still felt a trickle of guilt at my paranoia at Heaven. We both knew, really, that I would take no leg-ups. My phone rang loudly - it was Helen, an odd reminder of the outside world. I glanced apologetically at Matty, who gestured broadly with his hand to indicate that he didn't care.

'Well, hello. Haven't turned into a _hiker_ yet, have you?' She sounded perky.

'Not quite, but there's still plenty of time. How are you? Where are you?'

'Just at home... Eve and Lewis left this morning, I let them crash here since there was a bit of a party last night. Promise I've tidied up now though, it's totally spick and span.'

'That's fine - were there many people?'

'Quite a lot, but only friends of ours. How's Rolo finding the countryside?'

'Loves chasing pheasants, but he almost caught one, so we learned our lesson.'

'And Matty?'

'My ears are burning,' he leaned in, putting on a tone of faux-indignation. 'I'm fucking _great_.'

'He really is,' I rolled my eyes.

'So I hear. Listen, I'm going to Grace's place for a bit, helping her with wedding plans to make sure her head doesn't explode. I'll only be gone for about two days though, so I guess I'll still be back before you.'

'Cool, that sounds fine.' I was becoming distracted - restless as usual, Matty had started rifling through some shelves underneath the window, and was pulling magazines out haphazardly. 'I'll keep you updated.'

'Sure, sure. Love you, bye.'

'Bye.' I ended the call and knelt down next to him. 'What are you doing? Panning for gold?'

'I swear there was an interview with Ian MacKaye in one of these about recording _Repeater_... fuck, I could really do with that right now.'

He spent the rest of the evening digging through drawers, pulling out piles of folders and numerous cuttings that were stored for reference, until he ran out of energy. He missed dinner, and warmed up leftovers in the kitchen at midnight, in brooding silence. Finally, at four in the morning, he burst into my room brandishing the article he'd been looking for.

'Found it! It was underneath a bunch of board games, would you believe...' He stood at the end of the bed, slightly wild-eyed in nothing but pyjama bottoms. I sat up and glared at him.

'Matty! It's fucking _four_ in the morning.'

'Yeah, but... have you ever used a chorus pedal with your bass?'

I softened slightly. 'Oh, alright. Explain.'

I wasn't really annoyed at being woken - these were some of my favourite conversations with him, regardless of the hour. Eventually we smoked a joint together at the window, staring at the full moon, and resolved to go on another walk the next day that would hopefully take us down to the river. He had never struck me as particularly nature-loving, but there was something about the expansive space available to us, and the absence of hustle and bustle, that enabled a healthy degree of introspection. It felt like finding an equilibrium I was starting to realise I would miss when it was gone.

***

'I don't sleep very well, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you.' Matty grimaced apologetically at me, sifting through the acorns on the ground with his foot.

'It's no big deal. I found it kind of funny this morning, actually. I sleep like the dead when I'm stoned.'

He was in a different mood today, no longer antsy but circumspect and calm. It was Tuesday; Ross was due to join us the next day, and then we would return to London before the weekend. 'I really thought it would be easier to sleep out here, since it's so quiet. But if anything, the silence just intensifies the insomnia.'

The alpacas stared at us, bug-eyed, before dropping their long necks to munch on the grass again. There was a narrow footpath running down the side of their field, owned by some old couple that used their wool to make fancy knitwear and sell it at their farm shop. We were truly in the depths of the middle-class Cotswolds. I made a clicking noise with my tongue at the animals. 'I heard an owl the other night. That's something I've never heard inside the South Circular.'

'I found a hedgehog in my garden once, as a kid. We used to leave food out for it, and then the next week I saw one squashed on the road. Convinced it was the same hedgehog.'

'Were you upset?'

'I don't remember. Probably weirded out, more than anything else.'

The alpacas still stood there, unresponsive to my clicking; it wasn't like I had anything to offer them. We turned towards the path again. 'I hope you know where we're going,' I said.

'It's just downhill the whole way. I have a good sense of direction.'

'Alright, I trust you... though I trust anyone who can drive in London, so that's not saying much.'

We reached the bottom of the hill after half an hour of stumbles and careful steps. I was surprised not to hear loud, rushing water noises, considering we were supposed to be walking to a river, until a body of water came into sight. 'That's a canal, you mug, not a river,' I stopped Matty in his tracks and pointed along my eyeline.

'Seriously? What's the difference?'

'It's man-made, lined with concrete. See? It's dead straight too, like Regent's Canal.'

'But it's got fish and stuff in it, right?'

'Yes... yes it has.'

'Don't laugh at me!' He grabbed a fistful of dry leaves and pushed them down the back of my sweater, his face half mischief and half trepidation at my reaction.

'Dickhead!' I shook myself free of the leaves, brushing the remnants off. 'You want me to push you in?'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'You're right, I probably wouldn't. Don't want you to drown before you finish the album.' I leaned down next to the water, and flicked some up towards him. He stepped back too late, and a little of it splashed across the ankles of his faded jeans.

'At least it's clean-looking.' He grimaced. 'Thames water is full of shite.'

'And cocaine.'

'Yeah, that too.'

I sat on the edge of the lock; there were no boats in sight, and I very much doubted anyone would try and use it today. Matty sat next to me, tracing the cracks in the old wood and the rusted handles fitted into the beams.

'Do you think you'd ever live out here, or somewhere like this? Like, for good?' he asked.

'I'm not sure, you know... I think I get bored too easily. I need somewhere that's constantly buzzing. Not that it's not gorgeous, but I like the countryside as a retreat instead.'

'Yeah, me too. Sometimes it's kind of hard to isolate my ideas from all the other crap that goes on, and being out here just makes things simpler. My brain is quieter.'

'Don't you get exhausted? Isn't this life exhausting?'

'Well, do you?' Matty spun the question back. 'You're living it too now.'

'There's been some things... other than the job, that have complicated it.' I didn't meet his gaze at first, but being too concerned about mixed messages, I managed to in the end, somewhat sheepishly. He nodded, grasping my meaning.

'I know. I'm sorry if _I'm_ tiring. I think I tire a lot of people out.'

'No,' I said softly. 'Don't be sorry. I don't regret anything, really.'

'Not even New York?'

'Not even that.'

'Me neither. Hey, Jo... look at me.' He sounded particularly, unusually serious, and I felt every breath heavily in my chest. I felt naked when I looked at him now, with utter directness. There was no subtext any more to what we were saying to each other. There was a kind of relief in that. 

I studied his face, struck the way I always had been with the slight, flattering asymmetry of his mouth, and the intensity of his dark eyes. _A certain generosity of attention._ I remembered noticing it, feeling it, the first time he turned that gaze on me. It was almost overwhelming. 'I'm so happy you're here. I should have said it earlier. I love having you around. I love that you make me feel like myself, no pretence.' It came out in a rush. One hand played with a loose thread from the rip in his jeans, right over his knee. 'You've done a lot for me - more than you realise, I think. I don't have to be happy all the time, to feel content in the long run. I just need to feel understood.'

'Everyone likes to feel needed, right?' It's an attempt to be lighthearted that I regretted instantly.

Matty's eyes widened. 'Oh god, I've made it sound about myself, haven't I?'

'No!' I rushed to reassure him, pushing my leg over the lock so that I faced him entirely. 'It's true, I do like to feel needed. Sometimes to a fault.'

'It's funny, I think sometimes... about how I used to offer to help you out. You never really needed me. It's the opposite.' He chewed his lip, staring down at the murky water. 'God, this sounds corny. But in the interest of being sincere - I need, no... want to have you around.'

'Need, want, whatever,' I waved a hand in the air. 'I can't really put my finger on it, but I feel understood by you too. It's all I want from anyone, which is amazing considering I overthink shit and don't speak my mind when I know that sometimes I should.'

'You seem to speak your mind pretty easily to me now though,' Matty frowned. 'Unless I'm missing something?'

'No, you're right. I do. I mean, I can, but only to the people I'm closest to. The only reason I _didn't_ before was because things still felt so new and unfamiliar.'

'I'm glad I'm familiar now,' he grinned.

'More than that.' I took his hand and pressed my palm against it, until our fingers interlinked. 'You know you're my best friend.'

'Helen?' He looked up quickly, his eyes wide, looking as though I'd given him a gift.

'You can have more than one, can't you? You of all people know that.'

'Yeah. You're mine too.' Matty grinned down at our hands, still linked, and leaned against me affectionately. I felt him breathe deeply, and wondered if I smelled as good to him as he did to me.

And at that moment, my phone vibrated in my pocket, interrupting the peace. Matty sat up, and I immediately felt the absence of his body heat, and his head on my shoulder. 'Fuck sake…' I muttered. It was Helen, speak of the devil. The call dropped before I could answer, and then a message came through barely a second later.

_ JO - I'M SO SORRY BUT YOU NEED TO CALL ME. IT'S URGENT.  _

I tilted my phone, so that Matty could see the screen. His brow furrowed. 'What the… go on, see what it is.'

She picked up after one ring, and most alarming of all, seemed to be crying. My chest felt hollow before she even spoke.

'You need to come back, mate, seriously, everything's fucked and I'm really sorry to bother you when you're away but it's really… god it's really fucking bad-'

'Calm down! Calm down, Helen. What is it?'

'I got back from Grace's a day early - felt really grim, and we had an argument, it was just all-around a bad time. And the bay window was wrenched open when I got to the flat, and everything - fucking  _ everything  _ -'

'Oh, god.’ I stood up suddenly and stepped away from the water’s edge, dread slowly rising up in me. 'All stolen? The equipment?'

'Yeah. Laptops, guitars… the Moog…’ And she cried again, right there on the phone. It scared me to hear her cry like that, but it was because both of us knew we could never recoup it all. If we had signed when we had the opportunity, sure. But not now. There was just enough coming in, combined with savings, to pay rent, but the equipment was our livelihoods. The demos, too, on Helen’s laptop and the hard drives - fuck,  _ so much material.  _ All gone.

'Fuck sake!’ Frustration boiled up inside me, curdling into blind anger. ‘I'll come back. I'll…' What  _ was _ I going to do? What use would I be now? 'Have you called the police?'

'They're here now, taking a look around. It doesn't look good.' Meaning unless someone had dropped their fucking driving licence on the living room carpet, the situation was dismal.

‘I’m coming back today.’ I hung up and shoved my phone in my pocket, my jaw set hard. The fury inside me was impotent, directionless - I had only the faceless mannequins of the thieves in my head, but I still wanted to throttle them.

‘Jo?’ Matty’s expression was full of concern, eyes wide and arms crossed nervously.

‘This is so fucking unfair,’ I cried out, marching up to the lock again and throwing a violent kick at the solid wood, earning only a bruised foot in return. ‘Fuck!’ I circled frantically in pain and crouched down in the damp undergrowth, my hands flying up to my face. ‘Fuck my fucking life-’

‘Hey, hey! Don’t hurt yourself,  _ please _ …’ he begged, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around my shoulders, prising my fists away from my hair. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘This is so stupid!’ I sobbed, fighting the urge to pull my phone out of my pocket again and lob it into the canal. ‘Matty, everything is  _ so  _ messed up…’

‘I know, I know.’ He muttered in my ear soothingly, holding me more tightly. 

‘No, like - this is it, I’m fucking done for, you do realise?’

‘Don’t say that,’ he implored. ‘It’s not true. Let’s just get back to the house for now, talk things over.’

‘God, I am  _ seething _ .’

‘Deep breaths. Look at me.' I raised my head slightly, gulping in steadier breaths. Matty cradled my face in his hands, lifting my chin, his dark eyes searching mine. It ached to see the worry in his gaze. 

‘I need to go back to London straight away, and be with her.’

'Of course, I’ll drive you back.'

'Not all that way, you don't need-'

'Let me, Jo. It's my turn to look after you, surely.'

Matty was insistent, and I conceded, getting to my feet shamefacedly. My foot throbbed, my knees damp, and I noticed guiltily that his were too, the denim stained dark with mud. Now that the initial anger had subsided, the walk back to the house was sombre; he kept me talking, which I appreciated, preventing me from spiralling into panic again. When we reached the back door, he grabbed my hand, squeezing it quickly.

‘Go and pack, then get Rolo. I’ll explain it to the others and bring the car round.’

It was a relief to have someone telling me what to do. I was in a daze, wanting so badly to wake up and hear that it was just a nasty dream, to be comforted and coddled like a child, and shown that really, nothing was the matter. But that would be a falsehood, and one that would do me no good. I was twenty four and needed to face reality head on.

By the time I’d lugged my duffel bag down to the front door, the car was pulled up in the driveway, the passenger door open and Matty in the driver’s seat waiting for me. I didn’t know what I’d expected him to be like in a crisis, but he was business-like and surprisingly determined. Rolo jumped onto the back seat, perversely eager, probably thinking he was going on another adventure and hopefully this time with more pheasants.

‘Okay… ready?’ He asked, hand on the wheel.

‘In theory,’ I mumbled.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

We fell silent on the motorway, as he concentrated on driving, and as I turned my face to the window, it was getting more and more difficult to stay composed, not only because of the terrible circumstances, but because I was so touched by Matty’s response. I willed the tears to stop, but they rolled down my cheeks defiantly, as I held my breath, desperately trying to stay quiet.

‘This doesn’t have to spell absolute disaster, you know,’ Matty murmured, his eyes glued to the motorway as he changed gear smoothly. ‘Would you let me help you at least get set up again?’

I shook my head fiercely, and he glanced quickly at me, seeing my tears.

‘Oh, Jo… it’s alright. It’ll be fine, honest.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I sobbed, crumpling from the release of emotion and pressing my palms to my face.

_ ‘Shit _ . I wish we weren’t on the road right now!’ My heart sank at the distress in his voice. ‘I hate seeing you like this. I wish there was something I could do.’

‘You don’t have to do anything. This is enough, it’s more than I could expect.’

‘Rubbish,’ he said fiercely. ‘You know I can buy all that gear for you again.’

‘I can’t accept that. I’m sorry.’ I felt like an idiot with my voice wobbling all over the place. Matty didn’t respond, other than exhaling loudly, but as we settled in one lane, he reached across to take my hand, squeezing it and running his thumb over my knuckles. After a little while, he spoke again.

‘Shall I put some music on?’

I nodded. The strains of Joni Mitchell’s  _ Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire  _ came over the stereo, lulling me into a miserable reverie, and before he had to indicate at the next junction, Matty brought my hand to his mouth briefly, pressing his lips to it before releasing and checking his mirrors. I could still feel the warmth on the back of my hand, the imprint of his touch. 

And I sat there in the passenger seat, with my tear-stained face, a heavy heart, and the knowledge that I loved him. Oh, I loved him.


	15. Bristol to...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after the burglary, Joanna languishes in her childhood home, her motivation at a low ebb. And then the phone rings, dragging her kicking and screaming out of self-pity...

_(The Walkmen - Red Moon)_

_(The Neighbourhood - Tobacco Sunburst)_

_(Beach House - Sparks)_ _  
_

_December. Christmas Eve._

The laptop on the bed in front of me was a complete and utter relic. I stared at the blinking screen, cursing it for its contrariness, and contemplated giving up entirely. A seagull screamed angrily from the roof, making Rolo's head shoot up, his ears flicking back and forth in curiosity, and I got up to close my window and shut out the racket. Outside, the glow of next door's lights twinkled and flashed; mum and dad's neighbours were the brightest in the street at Christmas time.

It wasn't like it was unusual to be here at this time - I always came home for Christmas - but I'd already been holed up in my teenage bedroom for the last two months, and the surroundings were more stifling than comforting now. I felt like I'd regressed. No longer able to afford the rent for the flat, Helen had moved in with Kate whilst I'd moved back home, dismissing offers to flatshare from my friends and wanting to remove myself from everything that reminded me of what I'd lost. Having the dog for company was the only thing to stop me feeling like I was going round the bend.

We had come so close. Such is the fickle way of the music industry - you're never really solvent while you're off the road, and the graft that it takes to get back into the whole circus is exhausting to repeat when you've fallen out of it. I dreaded the thought of clawing my way back, week by week, month by month. And yet I couldn't sit in my room in my parents' old house, doing nothing; the four-track Tascam I used as a teenager still sat there, gathering dust but functional, expecting nothing of me except only scratchy, primitive, embryonic ideas. I was still filling notebooks, piling up tapes, ordering new blanks on eBay. So that was something.

I couldn't watch films on my old laptop, or install Logic, or do anything remotely entertaining or productive. I ventured downstairs to watch movies on the TV, or to half-heartedly answer University Challenge questions with my dinner on the coffee table. My parents were concerned but clearly stumped about how to initiate a conversation around getting me back on my feet - after all, hadn't I quit my job over two years ago? What options did I have, beyond repeating my early twenties?

The red dye in my hair had almost completely faded out, leaving an auburn sheen over my hair, which had also grown about two inches in my time at home. I spoke to Helen about once a week, but, having little to report or discuss, this usually culminated in receiving the same pep talk each time. Matty had called several times, but I didn't pick up; eventually I messaged him to let him know I was alright. Helen told me she'd warned him off coming to find me in Bristol, as sweet a gesture as that would be, but she insisted that I appease him somehow, let him know I wasn't totally reclusive. But the thing is, I was. I felt like a dead weight. I was ashamed that I couldn't keep up with my old life any longer, and by default, with Matty's life either.

Most of all, I was embarrassed at the thought of seeing him now. I had hoped that the intensity of my feelings would wane as I spent time away from him, from London and all the places we'd been together, but they only accrued greater weight, until the thought of seeing him again seemed dangerous, and I had to repress the wild hopes and puzzling dreams that came to me at nighttime, when I had less control over my subconscious. The visions and half-remembered flashbacks were torturous; guiltily, I touched myself and thought of him.

We hadn't seen a white Christmas in years. It was just cold enough that evening for us to see a layer of frost on the day, perhaps, but if I couldn't feel the icy draught through the cracks in the windowpane, the tall fir trees in the garden could just as easily be swaying in a late summer wind. At least tomorrow's celebrations would bring me up a little; it was hard to stay morose at Christmas.

The landline rang from downstairs, making me jump. My parents were out, having a drink with the neighbours; I exhaled heavily, wrenching my bedroom door open and taking the stairs two at a time, picking the phone up from its cradle in the hallway. Rolo followed me down, sticking to me like glue as he was disposed to, and watching me keenly.

'Joanna speaking.'

'Jo? Oh, thank god - it's me.'

'Matty?' I sat down fast, suddenly quite short of breath. 'Why are you calling my parents' house?'

'I figured it was the only way I could be sure of speaking to you, not just getting another vague message.' He sounded mildly frustrated. I didn't care - I was half elated at hearing his voice, half mortified at being contacted in the midst of my wallowing. 'What are you doing there? Why aren't you back in London already?'

'Maybe I won't go back at all.' I sounded like a petulant child; it was pathetic, but I couldn't help it. Rolo rested his nose on my knee and I stroked his head absent-mindedly.

'Sure,' he said sarcastically. 'Because you're starting a new life as a West Country farmer. Come _on_ , Jo! At the very least, I miss you. Helen misses you, too - though I can't believe I'm the one telling you that. Why are you cutting yourself off?'

A lump rose in my throat - _don't cry, you idiot, keep yourself together._ 'It's... fuck - it's hard to say over the phone.'

'Well, I've got all evening.'

'Don't you have better things to do on Christmas Eve?'

'Jo, I'm in LA. We're recording.'

It hardly mattered, of course, since we weren't face to face, but somehow it was worse knowing he was thousands of miles away. I hated the distance now I knew it was there. 'Oh.'

'Yeah. It's eleven in the morning here, I'm sat in this rented place in Santa Monica with fuck all to do other than mix these songs. Which I love, don't get me wrong, but it's fucking _Christmas_ and I haven't seen you in god knows how long... I don't know. It's been playing on my mind and I needed to speak to you. So tell me.'

'The thing is, I know it's on me to dig myself out of this mess,' I lamented, taking a deep breath. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling for the rhythm of my heartbeat - definitely still racing. 'And I don't think I can do it all over again, Matty. I put fucking everything into those demos - we both did. The mixes from Maida Vale - they're gone too, did you know? The same hard drives. Maybe they were just never meant to be heard, in the end.'

'Bollocks. There's no rhyme or reason to stuff like this happening - some cunt broke into your place and nicked everything they could get their hands on, to make a few quid. That's got absolutely nothing to do with the trajectory of your life.'

'Like it or not, it's set me back either way. We don't even have the flat in Streatham any more. You know what I've been using? A bloody _four track_.'

'Better than nothing. Fuck, Jo! If anyone can do it, you can. I'm not just fluffing your ego here. You're too gifted to give it up.'

'I don't even know how I'm going to find a new place.' My face crumpled; it was a small blessing that he couldn't see me from the other end of the line.

'Well... this is going to sound kind of crazy, alright? But you don't have to make a plan right now. How about we talk it through later this week?'

'What? You'll be back so soon?'

'No. Come to LA, for the New Year. And - I _am_ buying your flight,' he rushed, pre-empting my protestations. 'Consider it my present to you.'

I stared at the fraying rug beneath the armchair, the one countless feet had stepped on and worn down over the years as they crossed the threshold of the house. Los Angeles? Well, that was decadent, to say the least. It was true, I felt the impulse to say no, to shut out that possibility. But I was so, so tired, and worn down.

'Jo? Are you still there? Please, let me do this one thing for you. I swear to god, it's my treat - if anything, you're doing _me_ a favour, stopping me from going round the bend out here,' he rambled, desperately filling the gap of silence that implied I might be in shock - which, in fairness, I was.

'Okay.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah,' I repeated tentatively. 'I mean, yes, I'll come to LA. Fucking hell... how warm is it out there? What should I pack?'

'Fuck yes, that's great - doesn't matter, honestly, just - September weather, you know? _Yes_. I'm so happy, Jo.' His puppyish excitement was infectious, his voice rising and making him sound like a kid. 'New Year's Eve? Can you get to Heathrow by then?'

'Of course! Message me the details. I'll go wherever I need to.' I was standing again, pacing the hallway, biting my knuckle to suppress my glee.

'Just send me your passport number. I'll pick you up from LAX, yeah?'

'Thank you Matty, so much.'

'Oh, don't - listen, enjoy the day tomorrow, alright? I'm guessing you'll have a proper dinner too, I'm well jealous.'

'Yeah, my mum will probably outdo herself. You'd love it.'

'Bet I would.' Even now, the unspoken hangs in the air. 'See you soon, then?'

'Very.' _Love you_ echoed in my head; I let myself mouth it silently.

And he hung up. I did a little dance in the living room, embracing being home alone for the remainder of the evening, making Rolo bark furiously. Stopping to calm him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, breathless and pink-cheeked, hair dishevelled.

***

_'Passengers travelling on British Airways flight 269 to Los Angeles, please make your way to Gate 36.'_

Who knew the bark of the tannoy could hold such joyful associations? Holidays, tours, cheap weekend trips with Helen as a student - this was like all of those, but better. I eyed the ticket in my hand, which had landed in my email inbox barely half an hour after Matty's call. I'd cursed him for his extravagance at the time, but now the thought of spending the entire ten hour flight in first class seemed an entirely reasonable expense. I'd never have asked for it, of course. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel fantastic to be pandered to by the air hostess, only the third person to board the plane, and to receive complimentary champagne.

A few days before, I'd had a far nicer Christmas than I expected, feeling the warm anticipation of my impending trip. My parents appeared to be relieved I was getting away from Bristol for the time being, agreeing to dog-sit for me and even driving me to Heathrow in the end. Packing was confusing, too - in went the swimming costume, nestled beside jeans, a pair of shorts, a sweater and so on, and I just had to include the silk, candy-striped shirt eventually. It had seen plenty of good moments, and seemed like a lucky charm now.

In my reclined, first class seat, I kept my scarf wrapped around me, maybe permitting the air-con to blast me more than necessary, just so I could feel the need for it. The comforting, warm smell was fading; I wished I could get Matty to wear it for a few days to permeate it all over again. There were plenty of classics on the in-flight entertainment, and the new releases looked rather bland, so I stuck on _Apocalypse Now_.

I woke up with an hour to go, disorientated by the numbingly quiet hum of the cabin. The film had long finished, the complimentary blanket bunched around my waist. I threw it off, along with the scarf, and fanned myself. The map on the screen in front depicted our trajectory across Nevada, and being so close now to LA made the journey seem particularly final, as if it hadn't really sunken in when we took off that I would be crossing the globe. I was up in the air, with nowhere to go, and only the path I had taken in front - getting picked up by the man for whom I had feelings that were so confusing, they might as well have been inscribed in a foreign language across my heart.

Once again, I was struck by the anxiety of having no blueprint, no frame of reference for what I was doing. I told myself to calm down and conduct myself as I had for the last six months, successfully rebuilding a platonic friendship until it was too precious to consider disrupting.

I passed the final hour restlessly, getting up to go to the loo twice - the second time just to take a moment to compose myself. I felt well-rested, at least, so I didn't have dark circles. Staring at my face in the mirror, the cold light illuminating my features, I tried to see myself through someone else's eyes, specifically Matty's. What was it he liked about me? Or was my physical self no longer of interest now that our relationship was purportedly platonic? He made me feel loved, true - but as with any close friendship, the lines were blurred, and the things that would be romantic if an acquaintance did them (going to great lengths to seek out the other's company, expressions of affection, gifts) were perfectly reasonable for a _best friend_. And that was special in and of itself, I knew.

Landing was smooth, but I still closed my eyes and clenched my fists, squeezing my thumbs into my palms so tightly I left nail marks in the skin. From the moment I stepped onto American soil (in the form of airport linoleum), a deep-seated anticipation made my stomach feel like jelly. First class cases came off the carousel first, of course, so I didn't have to wait long to haul mine away. Customs. Passport control. _Arrivals_.

I scanned the waiting faces, my gaze flickering back and forth, but only the placard with my full name caught my eye, scrawled untidily on a piece of A4 paper. Peeking from behind it was Matty, a hoodie pulled up over his head in an effort to remain incognito, and a wide, cheesy grin on his face. As usual, the real Matty easily surpassed the imaginary one, from the times I'd played this moment over in my head on the flight, making predictions. He waited until I almost reached him to whip the paper away and wrap his arms around me.

'Hey, stranger. How was the flight?'

'Pretty good,' I said, giving his arm an extra squeeze. 'First class was amazing. Excessive, but... amazing.'

'Well, I don't even travel first class if I can help it. Just thought you could do with a treat, all part of the Christmas present.'

It was a long walk out to the car park, across sun-bleached tarmac. I let him take my case, which rattled behind us as I took big gulps of fresh air, an enormous relief after ten hours of the stifling, pressurised cabin. Matty seemed well-rested and extremely at-home in the Californian sunshine, smoothly pulling a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking a sleek silver car parked slightly haphazardly.

'I wanted a Tesla but Ross talked me out of it.'

I whistled under my breath. 'No wonder. You'd get keyed for parking like that back home.'

'Well, I was in a rush,' he said, a touch of defensiveness in his voice.

I poked him playfully in the side. 'Good. This country terrifies me.'

He hauled my case onto the back seat, and with a turn of the key and a discreet control somewhere, the roof slid back. 'I reckon this completes the cultural welcome.'

'Shit... this is cool as hell. What's next, In-N-Out?'

'Just the house, you can drop off your stuff.'

I extracted my sunglasses from my travel bag and put them on carefully, flipping down the passenger seat's sun visor and checking that I didn't look too dishevelled.

'You look fantastic. Honest.' Matty glanced over, winking at me. He _was_ in a good mood today.

'Speak for yourself. Are you getting a _tan_?'

'Nope, I've been holed up in the studio, haven't I? This is my break now.'

'What's this becoming?' I reached out and ruffled the back of his head, loosening the long curls at the nape of his neck. 'A mullet? Very Nick Cave.'

'Oh fuck, no. Want to cut it for me? I trust you.'

'That's dangerous territory.'

'If you mess up, I'll just shave it off anyway.'

I baulked. 'Really? You would?'

'Yeah, I don't give a damn any more. It's hair, it grows.' He accelerated on the freeway, and laughed at my gasps and expressions of awe at the surroundings, the vast scale of a West Coast city.

'It must take five minutes just to cross the bloody road.'

'And no jaywalking, remember? Can't have you getting arrested, can we?'

'That sounds like something _you've_ been caught out on before.'

'Damn, rumbled again.'

I tipped my head back against the leather seat, grinning idiotically to myself and taking pleasure in the warmth of the pale sunlight on my bare arms. There were actual palm trees sprouting from the side of the road. The novelty would take a while to wear off.

'What are you thinking?' Matty glanced at me.

'About how lucky I am. And how glad I am to be here.' I leaned against the window, angling my head so I could still see his face.

'You have no idea how glad I was that you said yes. It was a bit of a spontaneous idea, I know.'

'Yeah, well... thanks for pulling me out of my rut. I know it seems a bit pathetic.'

'If you'd run off for five years, maybe,' he chuckled lightly. 'But two months is reasonable. There's still so much left to _do_ , you know?'

'Speaking of which, I hope I'm not getting in the way here, if you're working on the record.'

'Far from it,' Matty shook his head vigorously. 'Now that you're here, I don't have anything left to do until I get home. We can just kick back and relax.'

'And tonight?'

'Yeah, I don't know if you celebrate.'

'In a small way. It feels nice to make an occasion of it. And I like seeing other people's fireworks.'

'There should be plenty of those,' he replied absent-mindedly, glancing into his mirrors. I let him concentrate for the last ten minutes, navigating everything on the other side of the road. 'So fucking... confusing...' he muttered under his breath.

Up a steep hill and nestled away beneath some greenery, Matty pulled into a driveway beside the rental house. It wasn't flashy, but upon stepping inside the door and gingerly lifting my suitcase over the threshold, I could see whoever owned it had splashed their cash on mid-century cabinets and plush soft furnishings.

'There's a studio on the lower level, rooms are up here.' He dropped the keys into a bowl and pulled his hoodie over his head, tossing it over the bannister of the staircase as he climbed up. 'Leave your bags, don't worry about lugging them up yet... there's a balcony and a hell of a view. I thought I might be getting tired of it but showing it to someone else helps me see it through fresh eyes, I think.'

'You're spoiled now, that's your problem,' I ribbed him gently. 'Too many five star hotels.'

'Oh, I see... so should I change your plane ticket home back to economy?'

'Shut up and show me.'

Matty opened the door to a plain room that looked out over the gentle slope of the hillside, across pale rooftops interspersed with unfamiliar greenery and the faint sparkle of the ocean visible where the horizon dipped enough to reveal it. I sucked in a breath of admiration.

'God, you're lucky.'

'You too, now. You can sleep in here.'

I turned back and surveyed the place, the clumsily made bed and the denim jacket hanging off a hook on the back of the door. 'Matty... is this your room?'

'No,' he said quickly, following my gaze and snatching the jacket down, folding it into his arms. 'I mean, I was in here for a bit. But now I'm next door. There's a study space with a sofa bed.'

 _Oh, you adorable idiot,_ I thought to myself. Hadn't we spent a night in the same bed before with barely a flirtation? Not that it lasted long, in fairness. So I didn't implore him to change his mind, or protest, and merely nodded instead.

'Still up for a swim? I think Ross will be back soon, he went with the others to pick up some food for tonight, just Sam and Damien from the studio. Might be nicer to just stay here.'

'There's a _pool_?' I didn't try to hide my awe any more. I had crossed over to the realm of pure fantasy.

'Heated.' Matty wiggled his brows. 'Now let me grab your case so you can change.'

***

If I thought the balcony had a good view, the patio was even better, the same panorama but wider. I placed my phone and a book down on the ground beside the sun lounger, pausing to tie back my hair and scope the place out for anyone else. Matty and I still had the house to ourselves for a little bit, but he'd disappeared somewhere, and the rippling water was too inviting to wait. It was a pool meant for floating, not serious swimming; a hundred metre length would probably take a dozen laps.

I vividly remembered the day I bought the blue bikini I was wearing. After graduating, Helen and I had taken a trip to Margate, riding the slow train from St Pancras and staying for a couple of nights in a hostel. The enormous sandy beach and late summer heat was enough to convince me I should take a dip, and we bought swimwear from the nearest chain store. I barely wore it after that, having never taken a real holiday since, and it took some digging to find in my bedroom in Bristol. It was especially pleasant to have an occasion for which it was justifiable.

It was like slipping into a bath, when I jumped in. Despite the strong sun, there was a palpable cool breeze that had been whipping up goosebumps on my arms, and the water soothed them. Floating on my back, I felt my hair lift away from my head; the sky was a clear, vivid blue, only a couple of cloudy tufts making their way slowly across the sky. A silhouette loomed over me, blocking the sun out, and I righted myself, my feet hitting the tiles.

'Blue is your colour, Jo.'

Before I could respond, Matty went to sit back on one of the other sun loungers, sporting sunglasses and typing something on his phone. I didn't know how aware I would become of my body until then; I felt particularly bare suddenly, in only the bikini. 'Are you coming in?'

'In a bit. Make the most of having the pool to yourself.'

I tipped my head and body back again, closing my eyes and letting the afternoon light wash over me. 'It's fucking blissful. I really feel like I'm in heaven.'

'Don't speak too soon... I've got an idea. I haven't been before, but I was thinking of driving out to the desert this evening. The views are wild.'

'How long does it take?'

'My phone says a couple hours. Fancy it?'

'Yes,' I said immediately, treading water. 'I want to do as much as possible while I'm here.'

He chuckled lowly. 'Yeah. Same.'

I floated for a little while longer, before drifting towards the steps and sitting there, propped up on my elbows. Distant voices echoed from inside the house, getting closer until a couple of people walked out onto the patio. I shielded my eyes from the sun, squinting to see who I recognised - Ross was the easiest to spot, his hair grown out slightly but still distinctive.

'Did you guys get champagne?' Matty called out.

'Yeah, some organic Wholefoods stuff in the end. We can crack some open now if you're feeling decadent.' Ross lowered a grocery bag to the ground beside the loungers. 'Jo! How was your flight?'

'Long but comfortable,' I grinned up at him. 'Thanks for having me here, Matty told me you were mostly done with recording beforehand.'

'Oh, it's a pleasure, don't worry about it.'

I clambered out of the pool and pulled a towel around my shoulders as Damien was introduced to me, and someone fetched glasses for the drinks. I only shivered once before Matty unbuttoned his shirt and declared he would swim, offering it to me. I accepted gladly, and resisted the urge to surreptitiously bring the material close to my nose, the warmth from his body still imbued in the fabric. I hadn't seen all his tattoos on show since the summer; I noticed the ones on his legs all over again, and remembered with a jolt how I'd first noticed them, as he kicked off his jeans and pulled me against him in his room.

When I walked in to find the bathroom, I caught my reflection and felt a constriction in my throat. Seeing myself in his clothes, half in a state of undress, wandering languidly around the house at leisure - it was all part of a fantasy I had forbidden myself. To see it manifest only partially was beginning to _hurt_. Something burned at the base of my ribcage... perhaps nausea, but no, this was some sort of psychosomatic ache. I wanted so much, and felt selfish for wanting it.

***

'As loud as you can! Go on. There's nobody here to hear you.'

I leaned back in the car, took a deep breath and screamed with all my might.

'That's a fucking hearty one,' Matty laughed at me gleefully.

'I can understand why John and Yoko went in for this stuff, you know,' I said, slumping back into the passenger seat breathlessly. 'Primal screaming.'

The sunset was spectacular, we both agreed. The light in the desert took on a prismatic quality, splitting easily into streaks of orange and lilac hues. We took turns picking music in the car, and everything that came on perfectly heightened the euphoria of the journey. Little novelties, like the stumpy cacti and classic American mailboxes, made me turn and stare; I felt like I was inside a television screen, but not one that could be punched through. It wasn't a fragile, delicate vision. It was defiantly in-your-face, insisting with each gust of dusty wind and overhead snatch of drawling voices that you were inhabiting a strongly evocative environment. I knew Matty felt it too, the way he voiced surprise around each corner turned. This was funny to me, since he had been out there longer, and multiple times, but it only served as a reminder of the scale of the country. In the distance, vast swathes of rock rose up out of the ground, and the passing road signs told us we were approaching the National Park.

'Okay, at this point I really don't know where I'm going...' Matty muttered, twisting his head to see any indication of a good place to pull up.

'Just drive as close to the rock as you can, park somewhere we can keep an eye on the car.'

The temperature had begun to drop, but we came equipped with thick jumpers and a blanket. Once we found a suitable patch and the engine was turned off, the silence was stark, and the utter loneliness of the place hit me. Gradually, the void of sound was overtaken by the strange, subtle noises of the evening: unfamiliar birds, crickets clicking incessantly. I opened the boot, rolling my eyes at the extravagant ice box inside and extricating two bottles, whilst Matty hoisted out the bag we'd brought along, and we began walking up towards a flat patch of rock.

As he walked ahead, I surveyed the job I'd done earlier, trimming his hair back to an acceptably manageable length. It was his idea to brush it forward again, so that the only clue that he'd had a haircut at all was the lack of length at the nape of his neck. Now he was left with a youthful sort of halo of hair, still very much out of control and not helped much by his habit of tugging at the bits around his ears when he fidgeted.

I remembered brushing the remnants of hair I'd trimmed away from his bare neck, taking his head in my hands to position it for convenience. His skin was so hot to the touch. Perhaps he'd soaked up a lot of the sun, I surmised. He looked in the mirror, watching me work and distracting me with his wide-eyed prettiness; I almost wished he'd pick up his phone again and scroll mindlessly, but instead he seemed quite fascinated by what I was doing. It was still wet from the pool when I cut it, and when I towelled his head dry afterwards, he closed his eyes, a silly smile on his face. I hardly knew what to think.

It had fully dried now, all fluffy and soft, and so had mine. Matty stopped ahead of me, crouching down to place his hand flat against the ground. 'It's still warm from earlier. It's absorbed the sun's heat.'

'Shall we stop here then?' I suggested, bending down to feel the rock's surface.

'Yeah, it's perfect. Look at that...'

I turned and scanned the horizon, feeling my pulse race at the sight. Lights twinkled in the distance, a tiny reminder of other human life in Joshua Tree. A firework went off, but when I checked the time, it was still only half ten.

'If they're celebrating a bit early, surely we can too.' I set about opening one of the bottles of champagne. 'Did you bring glasses?'

'Oh, bollocks. I didn't. Are you alright to drink from the bottle?'

I nodded, sipping carefully from the foaming bottle. 'It tastes good either way.'

'It's very cathartic, coming out here, isn't it?' Matty said suddenly, without preface.

'Yes... the primal screaming helps too. But this sort of thing also forces you to have perspective. It's impossible to live in your own little world if you cross the globe and spend time here. Self-pity, for example. It's kind of impossible to succumb to that any more.' I laid a jumper underneath me, so that I could sit comfortably.

'Exactly,' he said softly. He seemed deep in thought, and I sensed an urge to move beyond small talk.

'What are you exorcising?' I asked carefully.

'This weird year. It's been _over_ a year since we met, isn't that funny? And when it was a year to the day, that was just after you disappeared to Bristol. So no anniversary.' When he looked at me, it was with large, melancholic eyes, more so than usual. 'I fucked up, didn't I?'

'What makes you say that?'

'What you said on the phone, the morning after we kissed at the awards. I should have listened to you, when you said things would get messed up.'

I drank deeply from the champagne and passed it across to him. 'We've been over this, Matty. You didn't fuck up. Neither of us had any magical foresight, did we? I was the one who got all weird about it, and besides, if anyone had really fucked up, we wouldn't both be here now, holidaying in California. We wouldn't even have recorded together, or any of the good stuff that came later.'

'I shouldn't drink,' he said doubtfully, placing the bottle down beside him. Expecting him to continue, I waited, watching his expression, but he wasn't forthcoming.

'Then I won't either.'

Matty sighed heavily, lying horizontal and staring upwards. As I watched him stretch out over the bare rock, his t-shirt riding up and revealing his toned stomach, I felt the insistence of the pulse between my legs, my body betraying me. _Not now. Don't think about that_. 'I was seeing someone, a few months ago.'

'I know.'

'Really?'

'You forget,' I reminded him gently, feeling strangely calm about discussing it explicitly. 'I was around you about five days a week. There were plenty of signs.'

'Oh... well. She was an ex, and we were on good terms, so I thought... you know, if I could distract myself and go back... it might not be so bad. But it sucked, honestly. And I fucked her over this time, which is even worse.' He brought his hands to his face, dragging them down. 'It was empty sex, Jo. It meant nothing.'

'Why are you telling me this?' I asked. 'I mean... I'm glad you feel like you can talk to me about it. But you don't have to explain yourself to me, either.'

'I don't want you to think that I didn't, um... I don't know what you might have thought.' He cut himself off hurriedly. 'What _do_ you think?'

'I think that it's not really my business.' I drew patterns in the smooth rock beneath my hands, rolling to lie on my front beside him. My heart was beating so frantically at this point that I was in danger of clamming up completely, no longer able to converse functionally. I wanted so desperately to be honest. I had made it so clear, that day by the canal, that I felt I could be honest with Matty now. I didn't want that to become another lie. I was so fed up with restraining my emotions. And here I was in some sort of dreamland, a twilight zone where even the craziest words sounded reasonable, and considered. 'Although it was difficult to see. And I _know_ that makes me a hypocrite, so we're even now, alright?' I blurted out. 'We've agreed. Jealousy is the fucking worst. You just said it yourself, we messed things up.'

Matty sat up straight, staring down at me. 'Do you still feel it?'

'What?'

And in a gentle motion, he reached out and touched my lips, tracing them lightly. Rather than speak to confirm, my hand followed his, and guided his forefinger into my mouth, letting it touch my tongue. I sucked gently on it before letting it fall, watching his eyes widen and his own lips part. 'Fuck,' he whispered.

'You're dangerous,' I muttered.

'Bad idea?'

'Probably.'

'But only if it was casual, right?'

I didn't say anything, feeling the colour rising in my cheeks.

'What if I didn't want it to be casual? What if we tried again?' Matty's tone was so convincing... the ache in my stomach was rapidly turning into ecstasy, but I wasn't sure how much I trusted it. 'Think about it. Me and you! We're such a good team, Jo - we know each other so well, the ugly bits, the best bits. I fucking love being your friend but I want you so badly. I want you all the damn time.'

'I don't know,' I breathed, and realised his hand was linked with mine, squeezing it gently with each reason. 'I don't know.'

'I get it if you don't want to be in a relationship with me. Fuck knows there's plenty of reasons not to tie yourself down to... to this.' He gestured loosely, inwardly, and my conviction flared up, defending him against himself.

'Stop, Matty. Don't say that.' I leaned in and kissed him, barely pausing to think about the ramifications, but I didn't need to. Matty wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me across and on top of him. It was a slow, savoured kiss, the sort that reminded me there was still a whole spectrum of ways we would kiss and touch and fuck in future, that the two or three nights we had shared months ago were simply a taster, a free sample. And even then, they paled in comparison to the desire coursing through me now, because of one, singular difference. 'I love you. I fucking love you.'

He paused, his gaze fixed on me, blinking. I couldn't read his face.

'Matty?'

'Sorry, that was... god, I've dreamed about hearing that. I've loved you for so long.' I suddenly felt like I'd ascended to the astral plane. He licked his lips. 'You want in then?'

'I do. I want you.'

'Fuck me, what a relief,' Matty laughed, making both our bodies shake. He went to sit up, and I moved with him, sitting astride his lap. 'How do you feel about this, um... outdoors?'

'It's perfect,' I lifted his shirt and pressed my hands against his sides, feeling his chest expand with each breath. 'I missed touching you.'

'Me too.' He kissed my neck, hard. I half-gasped, sitting deeper in his lap, as he grasped my hips, his fingers digging into me. I was light-headed with lust, still not quite believing that this was reality. 'Remember how good this was?'

'Yeah, but it seems like forever ago.'

'I know.'

I brought my mouth to his ear. 'I want you to fuck me like it's the first time.'

'God...' he groaned.

Our kisses got messier, as my hands fumbled with his jeans. We laughed at the clumsiness of it all, pulling back slightly to half-undress and push waistbands down, shirts over heads. Matty's lips travelled down my chest - I hadn't worn a bra, and silently thanked my past self when she changed earlier.

'You looked so good, earlier. Swimming.'

'You mean barely clothed,' I teased. 'You were looking at my ass, weren't you?'

'No,' he mumbled. 'I was _admiring_ your ass.'

I laughed, grinding against him, one arm over his shoulder and the other finding his erection, pushing his underwear down. 'I've been thinking about this all day.'

He tugged my underwear aside, his hands cupping me. I cried out involuntarily as I felt him inside at last, the feeling foreign and divine all at once. As I started to move, Matty moaned beneath me, his face twisting. 'Fuck... yes...'

Instinctively, we moved in our rhythm, rising and falling, and I gently pushed him to lie back. The air was growing cooler quickly; I could almost see my hot breath in front of me, feeling his hands and hips guide each thrust. He was so beautiful, right there and then. He always was, but in the moment, it was enough to make my breath catch in my throat - the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, the words from his mouth, the way his body flexed with pleasure. I didn't focus on little things any more, small, pretty signifiers that he was handsome, that was all quite obvious by now. It was the whole man I desired, the way he existed in the world.

Matty pulled me down against him, snapping me out of my reverie, and his tongue slipped over mine, warmly copying the motions of his hips. Somewhere in the distance, a cacophony started up - the fireworks from distant townships, signalling the start of the New Year.

'Shit, we missed it?'

'Fuck it,' I replied breathlessly. 'Keep going.'

His rhythm began to change, becoming harder and deeper, making me tense around him. He panted into my mouth as his orgasm struck, but without missing a beat, he sat up and rolled his hips against mine again, his lips on my neck. 'I'm still hard. I want to watch you come.'

Fatigue and jet-lag was hitting me, but so was the stimulation, and I tipped my head back, closing my eyes and succumbing to my overwhelmed senses. Matty supported my lower back with one hand and massaged my clit with the other, murmuring in my ear and watching as I fell apart above him.

I went limp, trying to catch my breath, and he pressed his forehead to mine, holding me there. 'Happy New Year, Joanna.'


	16. Final Destination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in its right place, in the words of Radiohead. But there's always a catch, right? Right??

_(Weyes Blood - Andromeda)_

Before long, it became too cold to stay outside any longer. The thick layers of clothing, now sensibly worn, were no match for the desert night in January, and Matty and I admitted defeat by one in the morning. We pushed down the seats in the back of the car and curled up there, leaving the two hour drive home for daylight.

It had been so long since my last relationship, and even then, I had known it wasn’t built to last. On the contrary, rolling over on the back seat and facing Matty made me feel like all was right with the world. He frowned a little in his sleep and wrinkled his nose, his eyes still firmly shut, and I felt a surge of affection all over again. Now that I could permit the emotion, it came in constant waves, sweetly exhausting. I didn’t want it to stop.

I slept fitfully, my thoughts spinning and little anxieties forming. It wasn't as bad as it was before - this was uncertainty, not paranoia, and borne this time out of practicality rather than any doubt about Matty's true feelings. I hated how unpredictable the future was, how I couldn't be sure where I would succeed or fail. My leg began to cramp up, which woke me as the sun was starting to rise, throwing pale streaks of watery light across the sky and into the back of the car. I reached out and touched the glass of the window, feeling the chill on my fingertips, and withdrew it again, shivering.

A warm hand touched my neck, trailing down my back, and I turned to see Matty propped up on his elbow, slightly bleary-eyed.

‘Hey,’ he said softly.

‘Hey.’ I smiled giddily, dipping my head against his chest and letting him hold me close.

‘Are you cold?’

I shook my head. ‘I feel perfect.’

The drive back to Santa Monica was quieter than the one on the way out, and I guessed most people were lying in after the celebrations of the night before. Gradually, the early sun was overtaken by layers of grey cloud, and a faint drizzle of rain began to fall as we pulled up to the house, turning the bleached tarmac a darker grey. 

I made my way upstairs to shower as Matty boiled the kettle in the kitchen, and by the time I came down again in a dressing gown, he was curled up on a sofa by the window, balancing a laptop on his knee.

He nodded towards the steaming mug on the table in front of him. ‘There’s yours. Two sugars, right?’

‘You remembered.’ I leaned in to kiss his cheek, partly for the thrill of finally being able to do so, and sat beside him on the sofa. The screen of the laptop displayed flights, times and prices.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to fly back pretty soon… I have a bunch of meetings later in the week. No rest for the wicked.’

‘How soon?’

‘Maybe tomorrow evening?’

‘Oh,’ I faltered. ‘That’s…’

‘Too soon?’

‘Well. Not that you get a choice, I know.’ I paused. ‘Perhaps I could stay an extra day?’

‘You don’t want company on the long flight?’

‘I just think I need an extra few days to consider everything.’ I tried to diffuse my words by sipping my coffee at the same time, but Matty’s eyes widened.

‘Okay.’ He stared at the computer screen for a few moments, but I could almost see the mechanics of his inner monologue churning. ‘What is there to consider?’

‘How will our lives fit together when we get back? We can’t be on holiday forever. We both tour, we both work.’

‘Most couples work. They make time.’

‘Just trust me for a second, okay? If I felt less strongly, I might be more reckless. But you mean far, far too much to me to not think it all through.’ I exhaled shakily. Even as I heard the words form in the air, they sounded silly. Matty regarded me warily, but he understood, I could see that. Yet I could see the fear in his eyes too, and hated myself for putting it there. ‘Let’s put it like this. A bit of time apart, put it all into perspective… I already know how I’ll feel. It’s just the healthy thing to do, you know?’

‘Sounds like you’re testing yourself. I’m not sure how necessary that is.’

‘Me neither. But it’s better than not doing it all.’ I chewed my lip, and rested my head against his shoulder. ‘I mean everything I say, you know. I don’t exaggerate. I love you.’

‘I know. That’s why it means so much when you say it.’ He rested a hand on the top of my head, stroking my hair slowly. ‘So. We have today and tomorrow, until I travel back. What do you want to do?’

‘Okay… I want to walk along the beach, just for a bit, so I can say I’ve paddled in the Pacific. And I want some seriously good food. Apart from that, I’m not picky.’

Matty leaned back, nudging me upright again. ‘Alright, sleepy head. Get dressed and we’ll hit the sand.’

***

At the airport, saying goodbye distressed me in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend or define. I walked with Matty to security, just to postpone the departure, but quickly realised I should have ripped off the metaphorical plaster in the car park; I had to hug and kiss him all in a rush, and wished I could have drawn that out longer too. He looked back once before rounding the corner, his eyes fixing on me as if taking a photograph.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered under my breath. It took me a few moments to turn back and walk through the terminal, my inner monologue buzzing nauseatingly at me. The sun outside was blinding; I squinted and unfolded my sunglasses, calling an Uber and entering the first place that came to mind - Santa Monica pier.

The silence was unbearable, suddenly. Matty and I had walked and driven and eaten without conversing the whole time, obviously, and that was a companionable silence, one that hadn’t been disturbed by my brain yelling at me. Without his lovely face to distract me, I felt at a loose end, staring at passers-by and strange, hulking cars at the traffic lights with a strange disconnect. Being in LA by myself held its own particular thrill, but I couldn’t help starting to feel like I was delaying the important business of the New Year back home. I’d spent too long sitting listlessly in the provinces and acting out a suspended, delayed form of adolescence. Self-pity had gotten very old, very quickly.

The car dropped me by the seafront, and I wandered down to the sand, feeling the breeze whip up my hair and the colour in my cheeks. The sun had gone in, apparently fickle in its beams today. The water still frothed as it broke across the vast expanse of beach, the tide high and noisy. I wandered aimlessly for a while, but I kept hearing Matty’s voice in my ear, remembering how just that morning he’d exclaimed in delight at the dogs being walked, described precisely how difficult surfing was, and how unpleasant it was to inhale a lungful of water and come up again, choking. I’d laughed and teased him, and bet that I could learn in a day, and then bought us both ice creams, taking an innocent pleasure in tasting the chocolate on his tongue when I kissed him.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. There were two new messages, and reading them only made me more emotional than I was before.

_i know it’s a total dad mag but mojo has kate bush on the cover so i bought you a copy_

_okay, boarding now. i love you xxx_

I grinned stupidly at the screen, my eyes pricking slightly. I stared at the words _i love you_ , spelled out in black pixels and probably tapped out in a rush, but purposefully placed. I stared at the letters until my vision blurred, and the phone's back-light timed out. The sea roared in my ears, as if angrily reminding me to direct attention towards the idyllic display it was part of, and I was yanked back down to earth.

I kept feeling drawn back to the places I'd already been with Matty, and although this partly defied the purpose of spending more time in the city alone, it also served to reframe my experience with him, not just over the New Year but over the last twelve months as well. No memory was too mundane, no moment too generic - being with him was like breathing. I was reminded of the first time we talked at length, in the house's private cinema, the way it felt like my consciousness had been cleaved in two for the sole purpose of having such a conversation. People like that - like him - were so rare.

Wrenching myself back to the present, I tried to focus on where I was walking. It was easy to drift into a daydream on the long, expansive pavements, when you didn’t have to think about turning a corner or worry about barging into someone. There was a turning up ahead though, one of the main boulevards, so I took it. I recognised shopfronts and restaurants; again, I was retracing steps from the day before.

I went to the same sushi place, bought the same lunch. By the outdoor seating, an elderly man played a guitar and a harmonica, a different song to yesterday. I still felt the ghost of a touch around my waist, and sucked in a breath, remembering how Matty pulled me close on the bench, squinting and smiling in the sun. _I kind of want a harmonica now. I don’t know where I put mine. I haven’t seen it in years._ Speaking in my ear, a laugh whipped away in the breeze.

I needed to hear someone else’s voice, to stop myself from replaying it all and force me to be decisive. Finding Helen’s contact in my phone, I dialled; there was a blank silence of a few seconds until the tone kicked in, the connection forming. She picked up after two rings.

‘Jo! Holy shit, how are you?’

‘Hey… I’m really good. How was your Christmas?’

‘Oh, usual, you know. Grace and I argued again, Paul and his girlfriend got engaged, Dad looked like his eyes might pop at the thought of two weddings this year. I’m back in London now, though. How’s your side?’

‘Fine, fine. It was quiet, really, but I’m sick of things being quiet now.’ I paused for a moment. ‘I’m in LA, Helen. And then I’m coming back to London. If you’re not totally done with everything, I mean. I want to write again.’

‘Are you kidding? Of course I’m not done! It’s about time, fucking hell. And, excuse me, _Los Angeles_? Hang on, hang on…’ I could practically hear her putting two and two together. ‘Was this Matty’s doing?’

‘Might’ve been,’ I said slowly, laying emphasis on my words. ‘It’s incredible out here, Helen. I really miss you.’

‘I’ve missed _you_. A text a week isn’t enough, you know. It’s been weird not seeing you practically every day. How is he then? Can I say hello?’

‘He’s good, he’s, um… he’s not with me though. I’m on my own now.’

Helen required the full explanation, and gave appropriately gleeful reactions littered with expletives, but knowing me the way she did, she probed my reasoning for staying behind.

‘I don’t get it. Why are you pushing him away again?’

‘I’m not! I’m taking some time. You know, to think things through.’

‘Think what through? Thinking’s all you’ve done for months, surely. Can I give you a bit of tough love?’

‘Always.’

‘You’re busy looking for an issue that isn’t there. Let yourself believe in what’s in front of you, for once.’

‘But I could be deluding myself. Things could change-’

‘Yeah, and I bloody hope they will. That’s a _good_ thing. People change with each other. And if there’s one thing I learned last year, it’s that there’s no point trying to predict the future. We might as well take things as they come, and if they’re extra fucking special, you hold on tight, Jo. Hold onto this bit of joy in your life. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.’

‘Every time I think about any of my old anxieties, I just can’t take them seriously any more.’ I sat cross-legged on the sand, my legs giving way. ‘I should have got on that plane.’

‘You’re telling _me_.’

‘But I don’t know how soon there’s another ticket. And I’m just thinking… what have you been doing for money? How will I afford new equipment?’

‘Only thing you need to worry about right now is a laptop. Borrow gear from Lewis and Jay, they won’t give a damn - in fact, they’ll be pleased to help. I’ve done all sorts, Jo, pouring coffee, transcription, even babysitting… it’s enough. I’ve saved some.’

‘Think we can make it work again?’

‘We did it once. We can do it again. Kate’s still on board, you know.’

‘I can’t believe she still has faith in us.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve got faith in you and me, even if you are figuring out your quarter-life crisis on the fucking West Coast right now. For god’s sake, come home. To me _and_ your new boyfriend.’

‘I am,’ I took a deep breath, getting to my feet and dusting the fine grains of sand from my jeans. ‘I’m coming home.’

***

In the evening, Matty messaged again when he landed, and I called within a minute.

‘Hey, darling-’

‘When’s the next flight?’ I asked abruptly, though the pet name made me melt.

‘I can take a look. That was… quick?’

‘Yeah, I’m a fucking idiot,’ I burst out laughing at myself, at the whole predicament. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Don’t apologise! God, you had me worried there for a while.’

‘I know. I didn’t mean to complicate things. It’s so simple, when I think about it.’

‘I understand why you did it though, why you wanted to stay behind. I want you to be completely sure about this,’ he urged.

‘We’ve been through enough by now, Matty. I think we can take whatever this year throws at us.’

‘And the year after?’

‘And the year after the year after.’ My suitcase was almost completely packed. I sat cross legged on the bed, cradling my phone against my ear. ‘Is that too much?’

‘I can never have too much of you.’ I could almost hear the smile in his voice, imbued with anticipation. ‘I’m going to try and book for tomorrow morning, okay? I’ll pick you up at Heathrow.’

The email came through again a short while later, another first class ticket, for eleven the following morning. For the second night in a row, it was difficult to sleep, but this time for entirely different reasons; my imagination worked overtime, plotting and planning my return to London, the songs I would re-record, the long-awaited reunions with my friends and most importantly, my reunion with Matty, back where we belonged.

I kept the curtains open, figuring that if I couldn’t sleep, I might as well appreciate the stars from a different perspective. Just before I finally dropped off to sleep, my impatience evaporated, and was replaced by utter stillness. The moment crystallised; I was going home, and yet arriving somewhere completely new.

***

The plane touched down in the late afternoon. London was blanketed by oppressively thick, grey cloud, and torrential rain battered the terminal’s glass sidings.

 _fucking traffic!!_ Matty’s text had read. _i’m ten minutes away!_

The Arrivals hall thronged with families, businessmen, taxi drivers with wet hair from dashing through the rain. Wind from the automatic doors blew indoors in gusts, and I dragged my case over to a bench, hastily pulling on a jumper from my bag. I had no umbrella or coat, and would have to brave the weather to reach the pick-up and drop-off bays, but the concern barely registered with me. The walk across the building took only a minute, yet the time dragged out into an eternity.

As I reached the door, I spotted him in a vivid puffer jacket, slamming the door shut on his car and fumbling with the keys to lock it.

‘Matty!’

He turned on the spot and saw me, right as my phone slipped from my hand and hit the tarmac. The screen cracked, an ugly, jagged line right across the top. I didn’t care. Cold water trickled down the back of my neck as I bent to pick it up, pocketing it and striding towards him. It was a good fifty yards, but we closed the gap in seconds. He was so close, I could see a drop of rain on his cheek, his curls sticking to his forehead. And then we touched.

~

_So long Aphasia & the ways it kept me hidden_

_So long to silent nerves & hesitant oblivion_

_You came & sent me out unfurling in the street_

_And I felt unprecedented confidence in speaking._

****

**_FIN._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's almost all, folks - there's a nice treat for you after this though, in the form of an epilogue, and I'll try to make it long and juicy...
> 
> Thanks so much to those of you who've been commenting and leaving lovely feedback, I always appreciate knowing what's resonated so do let me know how you feel about the story.


	17. Epilogue ~ Hydra.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matty and Joanna's parallel 2020 is a lot better than ours - they get festivals and a proper summer holiday on a Greek island. The story officially came to an end in the last chapter, but I've always had an epilogue mapped out, to give you a glimpse of their future together.
> 
> Maybe a bit rushed, but cute, I hope - so without further ado, some pretty NSFW fun in the sun...

_Playing On My Mind_

The camera clicked and whirred in my ear as I pressed the shutter down firmly, one eye clamped shut as I focused my line of sight in the viewfinder. Although there was no way of knowing until we got home, I suspected I'd got a perfect shot; Matty, lit up by the strong afternoon sun, in crisp white and dark sunglasses, kneeling by the impossibly blue Mediterranean water that lapped gently against the side of the harbour. 'You look so sophisticated.'

'Sophisticated? Moi?' He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes then, hands on hips. I rolled the film forward hurriedly, snapping another picture before he dropped the pose.

'I take it back. Beautiful idiot.'

'Careful. Just one step, and...' He darted up and hooked an arm around me, making me shriek as my foot flew out from under me, mere inches from the water's edge.

'Matty!' I shrieked, clutching the camera to my chest. 'I'll kill you!'

'I've got you, hey.' He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. 'How long do you think we have until it gets dark?'

I spun around to face him, pushing my own sunglasses up and off my face. 'A couple of hours, maybe. Why?'

'I want to get some more pictures of you. You've just been snapping away at me the whole day.'

'Or we could ask a local to take one of the two of us.'

'Locals... they must hate people like us.'

'I don't know. We eat in their restaurants and sleep in their hotels. It's a finely balanced symbiotic relationship.'

Apparently satisfied with this conclusion, Matty released me and took my hand, swinging it a little as we wandered back along the waterfront towards the hotel. It was as warm as any heatwave back home, but not so hot as to be unbearable. Wonderful smells emanated from the roadside, where restaurant grills were being fired up, small kitchens readying themselves for diners.

We were staying in a place that was only letting about four rooms, but they were decadent ones, in an understated way. There were rich blue sheets on the dark, antique bed, a thickly piled rug to match and wide, cushioned armchairs in front of the patio balcony; there were his and hers sinks in the bathroom, and mismatched, hand-painted tiles on the floor. And that was before you factored in the view, sweeping down over the terracotta roofs of buildings lining the Greek hillside, curving around to hold us neatly in the bay like a giant hand carrying precious cargo in its palm.

The price we paid for this view was the uphill walk back to the hotel, and by the time I flopped down onto the bed, I had sweated through my t-shirt. Matty dropped the keys on the bedside table and went to collapse on top of me.

'I need to shower,' I protested.

'Still smelling sweet to me.' He pushed my t-shirt up and pressed his lips to my stomach, where he knew I was ticklish, making me kick in protest. 'I should too, though. Want me to join you?'

'Hmm... tempting.' I combed my fingers through his hair lazily. 'But I want to save it for later.'

'Alright, you go first.' He rolled off me, grabbing the TV remote and switching on the flat screen in the corner. A Greek news channel jabbered away, flickering to a sitcom, to what looked like a history channel, none of it comprehensible to us. 'It's a little bit Lost in Translation, isn't it?' Matty stared at the screen.

'Yeah, except you have me and you don't have to befriend an aging actor in the same hotel.'

'We could find one to adopt.'

I raised an eyebrow, stripping down to my underwear and taking my necklace off. 'Maybe I prefer silver foxes.'

'Maybe that's why you love _me_.' He shook his curls over his brow, almost going cross-eyed from staring hard at the ends of his own dark locks, apparently trying to find one of the lighter hairs.

'Give it a few years.' I unclasped my bra and stepped out of my knickers, enjoying the way his eyes tracked my body on the way to the bathroom.

'Leave the door open?'

'Oh, alright.'

Halfway through shampooing my hair, I caught sight of Matty in the mirror's reflection, leaning over the balcony and gazing out as the sun began to set dramatically, casting a pink glow over the horizon that faded into the darker blue of night. He looked utterly content. I felt a little guilty that this was a surprise; I was so used to his fretting and restless anxieties, but then so was he with mine. The good thing was that we never worried about the same things. My patience for him was boundless. How could it not be, when he made me so happy?

As if sensing my eyes on him, he turned to face the mirror, crossing his arms across his bare chest and smiling languidly at me. I narrowed my eyes playfully, pointing at myself and then him with two fingers in a V-shape. 'Enjoying the view?'

'Very much, yeah.' He wandered into the room, digging through his washbag to find a comb. 'Shall I slick my hair back tonight? Not in a greasy way... more like Nick Cave.'

'I like the sound of that.' I switched the water off and lifted a fluffy, fresh towel from the radiator. 'Don't do it until right before we go though. I'm going to nap for a bit, join me when you're done?'

My hair air-dried in the evening humidity as I lay back on the bed, wrapped up in a hotel dressing gown. Matty's legs stretched widthways across the covers, his head resting on my stomach and a half-closed book lying limply in his hands. I knew that we both dropped off, but I was preoccupied with a strange, almost lucid dream - in my mind's eye, I was back in London, in my new flat with the door to the garden flung open. For some reason, Helen was painting one wall purple, but was dressed in white, so the paint was going everywhere and making a terrible mess. And then Matty appeared, insisting that there was nothing to worry about, although I couldn't recall being distressed by the paint dripping on the floor and all over our clothes. He seemed ecstatic in the dream. Helen disappeared, quite inexplicably, leaving us to carry on painting. The flowers outside were purple too, I noticed, and the neat patio was becoming overgrown, a veritable secret garden. By the time I woke again, all I could think about was the colour purple.

The clock beside the bed told me we had just under an hour until dinner, since the table was booked for eight. Matty was still out for the count and evidently very comfortable lying half on top of me, but I had to move, so disturbing him was inevitable. I rested a hand gently over his forehead, stroking his hair back from his brow.

'Come on, sleepyhead. We need to get dressed.'

With a grunt, he rolled off me and stretched his limbs. 'Are we dressing _up_?'

'Depends. I will if you will.'

This was persuasion enough. He found a printed shirt and a pair of dark trousers, and sat in one of the armchairs as I rifled through my own clothes, seeking out one item in particular. He made an approving sound as I slipped the rich violet crepe of my dress over my head. 'I love that colour on you. Makes you glow.'

***

We walked back down the hill towards the harbour, relocating the restaurant we booked at earlier after a couple of wrong turns.

Matty snatched up the wine list before me once we were seated. 'Since it's our last night... I say we go big _then_ go home. Yeah?'

'How big were you thinking?' I smirked, smoothing my napkin over my lap.

'There's a two hundred euro bottle of champers. That big enough for you?'

The waiter uncorked the bottle in front of us with admirable control, as I stretched my legs out surreptitiously under the tablecloth, looping my ankle around Matty's. 'I'm not too miffed about going home, really. It helps that I have plenty to look forward to,' I mused.

'Well, it's... what, two festivals down, five more to go? Three of those together. Thank god I'm shacking up with a musician.'

'Charming.' I touched my glass to his with a light clink. 'To shacking up, then.'

'Cheers,' he toasted me, keeping eye contact as he took a sip. He still had the ability to make something in the pit of my stomach flip, regardless of how he cleaned up. But tonight he was really radiant, probably because he was so relaxed, his wry smile meant entirely for me. 'I know what you mean. This week has been divine, but I miss London now.'

'I think we're too used to one or two-day pit stops. Tour will do that to you, I guess.'

'Well equally, we're hardly the kind of people to sit back and take early retirement.'

'You can,' I nudged his leg playfully. 'I've got an album to promote! And then following that up, fuck...'

'Oh, but don't tell me you don't relish that challenge now. You _know_ what sort of opportunity it is.'

'Only if I ace it.'

'Which you will.' Matty's unwavering confidence in me still had the power to bring a lump to my throat. I looked at him with a stupid smile on my face, just as the first course arrived and saved me from gushing over the depth of my feelings for him.

Three courses and several glasses of champagne later, we paid and wandered back outside again, retracing our steps down to the harbour. Now that it was properly dark, the moon's light dappled the water and made the sky around it seem like a rich, velvety navy in comparison. I pulled my jacket around me as Matty took my hand, lighting up a cigarette and coming to pause in front of a few of the small fishing boats.

'A sight prettier than the South Bank, isn't it?' He commented dreamily.

'What are you implying about the South Bank?'

'It's always bloody freezing when we're there.'

'We just don't pick our time well.'

'I quite like our timing now though.'

I took the cigarette from him, inhaling half-heartedly. 'Took long enough, I guess. We deserve it.'

It was the one of the first things we did, that first night back in London. Matty drove us straight from Heathrow to Ladbroke Grove, and I stayed with him there for a while, but both of us were restless, reinvigorated by returning home and the newfound freedoms we were able to snatch in between our obligations. The South Bank was first though, and we kept going back to it, weather permitting. Only once his new album was out and mine was ready to be pressed, did we book the holiday. We sat down on the harbour wall, feet dangling over the edge.

'I still feel a bit delirious about all this. Like it's a lucid dream.'

Matty pinched the back of my hand playfully. 'Welcome to reality, darling. I'm still amazed I'm able to make you happy.'

'Oh, shut up,' I rolled my eyes. 'Self-deprecation allowed on home turf _only._ Wait another day until you start wallowing again.'

'Where do you see yourself in five years?' Matty asked carefully. I blinked, turning to look at him directly.

'I would say don't change the subject but that's actually kind of deep.' I swung my feet back and forth pensively. 'Give me another cigarette and let me think about that one for a second.'

He held the pack out to me, flicking the lighter too. 'Have you ever wanted a kid?'

I almost dropped the cigarette. 'Oh!'

'Just out of curiosity,' he added quickly, 'that's all. I mean, I wouldn't mind.'

My hand flew up to my mouth to hide my startled smile. It had been a long time since I felt like this around him, which was silly really, considering the gravity of the conversation. But there it was, the flutter at the bottom of my ribcage. In truth, I had only given it passing thought. I knew I would want it, though not so badly that it would be an issue if he didn't. 'I guess it always depended, for me. On who I'm with.'

'And as you're with me, it's a... maybe?'

'It's a yes, for you. Give it a couple of years though.'

Matty kissed me in answer, a deep, forceful kiss. There would be no tiring of it. I wanted him more than ever. It sounded so right in my mind all of a sudden; to have him to myself for a while longer, before we tried something new. It terrified and thrilled me all at the same time, which experience told me was the right gut instinct. 'Shall we head back?' he suggested.

I nodded, getting to my feet. It was even more apparent, as we straightened up, just how much we'd had to drink between the two of us, and we stumbled, giggling, back up the hill and to our suite. He gripped my waist tightly as I unlocked the door, hooking an arm around my middle and holding me against him once we were inside. 'This had better be worth the wait,' I gasped, as his lips travelled down my neck hungrily.

'It's you and I, how could it not be?' Matty turned me around, burying one hand in my hair as his tongue traced my mouth. He felt like home and a treat all at the same time. I would never completely get used to this.

He slowed down a little, pulling away as he felt for the zip at the side of my dress. 'Does this one have to go over your head?' He asked doubtfully, breaking our frenzied ardour.

'Yeah, let me-' I wriggled out of it clumsily, letting the material pool on the floor beside my feet.

'Come here.' Guiding me by the waist, he sat back on the end of the bed, pulling me onto his lap. Opposite us was the mosaic-framed mirror I did my makeup in earlier that evening, now reflecting us back at ourselves. 'Watch us.'

It was all I could do not to gasp as he slid one hand down my stomach and into my knickers. I didn't know where to focus on - his hand or his face, dark with concentration and lust. His other hand yanked at the soft lace of my bra, pushing it up and cupping my breast so that not only did I feel like his hands were everywhere, but I seemed to see it in the third person too. 'Didn't know you had a thing for voyeurism,' I managed to say, between sharp breaths.

'No sarcasm while I'm getting you off,' he muttered, and I saw my own face twist in pleasure as he sucked lightly on the sensitive spot on my neck, curling two fingers inside me. 'You're so beautiful when you come.' I melted against his chest, leaning into him. My knee jerked and I gripped the wrist nearest to my chest as the delicate tension grew. But when I thought I was close, swearing quietly and holding a breath in my lungs, he moved his hand suddenly so that the elastic of my underwear snapped back, chuckling in my ear.

'Oh, you bastard. It's like that, is it?' I exclaimed, getting to my feet and pushing him back. There was something about making sex combative that titillated me, and Matty was so good at switching it up, turning it into an endless game.

'Can't let it be over too soon, can we?' he laughed lightly, propping himself up on his elbows. I narrowed my eyes at him, crawling over the covers until I was level with his hips.

'Depends how long you last tonight.' I unbuttoned his fly, feeling for his hard-on through his underwear. 'You're still wearing too many clothes for my liking.'

Matty unbuttoned his shirt hastily and pushed the trousers over his hips, and I snatched the shirt up before he could throw it to the floor, pulling it over my shoulders. The silk was warm with his body heat, and I hovered over him on my knees, my hands on my hips. He swore softly. 'We should share clothes more often. You look so fucking hot.'

I brought my mouth to his crotch, tracing the outline of his cock through the white cotton; his abdomen tensed with anticipation, making me smile. Finally I pulled back the waistband and took a moment to admire him before encircling him with my lips, and he exhaled with a long, low groan.

'Jesus...' He cradled my bobbing head in his hands, sweeping my hair back. 'Hang on. Turn around. Like this...' he sat up further, motioning towards me until he could reach my waist and pull me over. I grasped the idea as I straddled his chest, bending down to resume giving him head whilst his breath tickled my inner thighs. Lying on top of him, I felt every rise and fall of his chest beneath my stomach, his roaming hands pulling my underwear aside and his tongue enveloping my clit.

As my whole body became sensitised to his touch, I had to relinquish any conscious efforts and be taken over by instinct, or else I'd have been gripped by paroxysms of ecstasy. And still we didn't let ourselves peak, rolling back breathlessly and laughing in wonder at the bliss of it all. Matty reached out for my hand, linking our fingers together and squeezing lightly.

'God, I'm so in love with you, Jo.'

I sat up and leaned over to kiss him again, grasping his arm. 'I love you,' I breathed him in with greater urgency now. 'So much it hurts.'

'Feels good?'

'Like heaven.'

It was all we could do to speak in half-lines as we disentangled ourselves from any remaining clothes, and he pulled me down into his lap carefully so that he could fuck me at last. I clung to his shoulders as I moaned against his ear, his hands intermittently gripping my ass harshly. Time became elastic in my mind, stretching out somewhere outside of reality. All I could think or feel or do was connected in some way to Matty, his body, my body. I lost count of the orgasms and said a lot of delirious things in the heat of that long moment, and we must have slept at last, worn out from the exertion and drowsy from the wine.

***

I woke to a fuzzy head, not quite aching but somewhat giddy for a few minutes. The heavy blue sheets were kicked back to the end of the bed in a crumpled heap, and as I rolled onto my side, I inadvertently elbowed Matty, who was lying on his front and cracking a sleepy smile in my direction.

'Morning,' he mumbled softly.

'Hey,' I pressed a kiss to his cheek, running a hand down his back, his skin cool in the morning's first light. My fingers drew circles around each vertebrae, massaging the muscles gently on either side. 'I feel a bit gross. Do I look gross?'

'Never,' he replied dreamily, still sounding out of it. 'Beautiful.'

I suppressed a laugh and tapped his bare arse. 'This is a beautiful bum. Haven't I ever told you?'

'No...'

'It's peachy.'

'Means I'm strong.'

'You wish.'

He draped an arm over my side, hugging me closer. The sun still hadn't fully risen, and our flight wasn't until the evening. There was time enough for a lie-in, and then time enough for packing; time for playing and writing when we got home, time for talking well into later nights than the last one. Time had been kind to both of us, in the end.

Matty sighed heavily, gazing at me through heavily lidded eyes. His lips pursed as though he was trying to hide a smirk unsuccessfully. I nudged my forehead against his, prompting him.

'What is it?'

'Nothing.'

' _Tell_ me,' I insisted.

'We're just so good for each other. That's all.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a pleasure to have so many readers and such lovely feedback! Thank you so much if you've commented, voted, or just enjoyed following. This has been the first long story I've actually managed to finish, so I'm quite attached to it. It's unlikely I'll write a sequel, though further one-shots in this vein aren't impossible.


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